It Was Only for an Hour
by RaisingAmara
Summary: On a frigid Minnesota winter night, a moment of dubious judgment by John leads to trouble for his teens. Will Dean live to regret trusting Dad to take care of Sammy? And when Dad forces Dean's hand into leaving a sick Sam behind and unattended, how will Dean ever get his little brother back from the madman who stumbled upon him at his weakest?
1. Chapter 1

She had rivers of blond highlights and brown eyes to die for, and Dean had met her last night when he'd taken Sam out to eat. The Red River Bar and Grill was the only option in this tiny, backwater town, and Sam had grown tired of peanut butter on stale bread. He was coming down with a cold, too, Dean could tell. So he'd dragged his little brother into the grill side of the bar-and-grill and let him order a real meal for a change.

And that's when he'd seen her. Shazam.

So now, he was freshly showered and shaved and planning to meet the girl of his dreams for an hour or two while Sam napped, but then Dad had unexpectedly arrived back at the motel, and Dean could tell that Sam wanted him to change his plans and hang around instead.

But sixteen-year-old Dean pictured the hair and the eyes all wrapped up nice and neat atop a tight, white sweater, and suddenly, his little brother wasn't the first thing on his mind anymore.

"It'll be fine, Sam." Dean reassured him when Dad stepped out to bring in the weapons bag.

"Please, Dean?" Sam whined. "You know he'll have us cleaning weapons all night long, and I feel like crap. If you stay, he'll ignore me like he always does when you're around."

Dean looked sideways at his little brother. "He does not ignore you when I'm around. Where's that coming from?"

"Um, from twelve years of experience?" Sam said, pissy.

"You're worried about nothing," Dean replied. "I'll tell Dad you're sick and to let you sleep, okay?"

Sam sat on the bed, hugging his knees and looking miserable. "He won't." He said, almost crying. "He'll tell me to "Suck it up and be a man, Sam.'"

Dean had to stop and smile at that. Sam had his impersonation of their dad down to a damn science. Dad didn't always show the best judgment, after all. And Dean could picture the old man saying something exactly like that.

But not to Sam when he was obviously not feeling well. If it was Dean spending the night with Sam, he'd put him to bed early with some acetaminophen and a cup of that girly tea he loved so much. Then they'd hang out, crashed on the same bed, watching whatever crappy movie was on cheap cable and making endless fun of the bad acting.

Dad probably wouldn't go that far, but he'd make sure Sam was tucked in safe, at least. He wouldn't have him sitting out in the chilly motel room, cleaning weapons until the wee hours.

Right?

Dad blew back into the room then, carried in by a fresh blast of frigid air. He moved over to the barely working wall heater and held out his hands, trying to get the circulation back.

"Dammit. It's cold out there tonight." He said, and Dean saw his opening.

Speaking of cold, Dad. I think Sammy's coming down with one." He offered. "He's been running a low fever all day, and now he's got a cough on top of it. He needs to rest, okay?"

John looked at his older son like he'd just lost his mind, "Since when does a cold put a Winchester out of commission?" He growled, disbelievingly.

And Dean felt his heart sink as he looked over at his little brother huddled so miserably in the middle of his bed with an "I told you so" look written all over his flushed face.

"Look at him, Dad." Dean pleaded. "He's sick. If he doesn't get rest now, we'll be taking him to the ER later." Dean tossed out his secret weapon. He knew their father frowned on ERs and hospitals in general. Unless a Winchester was in imminent danger of losing a limb, medical facilities were strictly off-limits.

"He'll be fine, Dean." John said, dispassionately. He turned to Sam, and dropped the weapons bag on the bed beside the shivering boy. "Here, Sam, work on these, would you? I have to go make a call." He pulled out his phone and stepped back outside.

Dean could feel Sam's glare on the back of his neck, as he bent to retrieve his wallet and phone from the nightstand beside his bed. He took a minute to compose his face before turning around and taking in the sight of Sam, sniffling quietly as he slowly unzipped the massive bag and began pulling out guns.

Dean watched in silence for a moment before walking over and sitting down on the bed beside his brother. He could feel the heat emanating off him from a foot away and was suddenly thankful for the two pills he'd had Sam down just a half-hour ago. Those should be enough to knock his fever down as soon as they kicked in, which should be any minute now. He shoulder-bumped the kid. "Just for an hour or two, okay? I promise."

Sam didn't answer. He just bit his lip silently like he was trying not to cry.

"Sammy? Please? Just for a little while? I just … I gotta get out of this room for a bit, you know? I'm going stir crazy."

Sam looked up at him then - eyes watery and face flushed pink from the fever. He nodded. "Go then." He said. "It's okay."

Dean hedged, caught between wanting to be there for his little brother and wanting to explore the possibilities of life with Tina.

"You sure?"

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice.

"I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow night, Sammy, okay? We'll hang out and eat crap and watch crap, and you can nap all you want, 'kay?"

"Yeah," Sam answered gruffly.

So Dean pulled his coat down off the peg by the door, and met his father as he was coming in. He hesitated.

"I'm not sure I should go out with Sam being under the weather." He voiced his concerns.

But John only looked at him and smiled. "It's okay, Dean. You've earned some downtime. Go blow off a little steam. I'll look after your brother."

"You sure?"

"I can handle one twelve-year-old kid, yes." John replied, rolling his eyes. He tossed Dean the keys, "Here, take the car. It's too cold to walk anywhere."

Dean's eyes lit up. "Cool! Thanks, Dad." He risked one more glance at Sam, who was studiously taking apart their dad's old .45. He looked a little less flushed, and Dean hoped that meant the medicine was working. He'd be back long before it was time for a second dose, so Sam should be fine.

"See ya, Sammy." He spoke from the door.

Sam looked up then, and tried to smile. "Bye, Dean." he said.

Still, Dean lingered, studying his brother, until his father made the decision for him. He opened the door and gently pushed Dean toward it. "Go. Have fun. We'll be fine. Enjoy it while you can. We'll be back on the road in a day or so."

So Dean did.


	2. Wintry Walk

Dean felt guilty right up until the moment Tina slid into the back seat of the Impala and moved in close. After that, his mind became … occupied, and he lost track of time. He only came back into himself when he heard the small tap, tap, tapping on the driver's side window.

"What the hell?" He broke the embrace and sat up. "Occupied!" he growled at whoever had the balls to come knockin' when the Impala was almost ready to start rockin'. "Move along, whoever the hell you are!"

"Dean," a small voice piped up. "It's me."

"What?" Dean wiped the steam off the window, "Sam?" He rolled the window down. Sure enough, there stood his kid brother, practically whipping in the wind, wearing nothing but his brown canvas jacket and jeans held together by holes. The bitter Minnesota wind buffeted the lanky kid like a signpost, and Dean could see that he was even too cold to shiver. He looked like he was two seconds away from collapsing to the ground and shattering into jagged pieces.

"Sammy? What the hell!" He reached up and unlocked the front door. "Get in!" He looked over at Tina and broke the bad news. "I'm gonna have to take a rain check, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

"What?" She wasn't happy.

"I gotta go. Sorry. Another time."

"This is bullshit!" She muttered as Sam slid into the front seat and parked his lanky frame in front of the heater. She smacked him on the shoulder, rudely. "Hey! You're blocking the heat, you little freak!"

Sam made a move to slide over, "Sorry." he apologized, dropping his head in embarrassment, but Dean's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Stay right there, Sammy." He ordered.

He looked at Tina, who had suddenly lost most of her charm. "Get out."

"What?"

"You heard me. I said get out. The bar's right there. Go."

"Well aren't you just a knight in shining armor?" She spat.

"Yeah, whatever you say." Dean opened the door and climbed out, sliding into the front seat beside his brother. "What the hell, Sammy? He asked again, grabbing his coat and wrapping it around his brother's shoulders. "Why are you here? How did you get here?"

"Dad sent me." Sam answered sleepily. "He needs the car. You weren't … answering your phone."

"What? He never called me." Dean pulled out his phone to find eight missed calls. "What the …?"

The giggle from the back seat clued him in, and he spun around in the seat. "You didn't ... did you turn off my phone?" He barked.

"Maybe," she tried to play coy.

"Out! Now! Go"

"Don't call me!" She spit out, slamming the door shut behind her. Dean watched until she flounced haughtily back inside the bar, then he returned his full attention to his brother.

"Did you walk here? Sam, it's five blocks, and it's gotta be a good ten below zero out." He cranked the heat up on high and adjusted the blowers so they all pointed to Sam.

Sam just nodded sleepily.

"Sam!" Dean grasped his brother's shoulders and shook him gently, slapping his cheek softly. "Sammy, stay with me, you hear?"

"I'm h-here, Dean."

Dean cursed."What the hell is wrong with Dad, sending you out in this?" He fumed. "You're sick, you got a fever, and now you're damn near hypothermic. Son of a bitch!" He threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. "We gotta get you back to the motel and into a hot bath, kiddo."

"Dad got a call ... about a h-hunt. Needs the c-car right away. You've been gone for hours, Dean."

"What? I couldn't have." Dean glanced at his watch to see nearly four hours had passed since he'd left the motel. "We only grabbed something to eat at the restaurant and then talked for a while." Dean tried to rationalize. "We only just moved the party outside about 10 minutes ago." He looked over at Sam. "Damn, I'm sorry Sammy. I left my phone on the table when I hit the head. She must have turned it off while I was gone."

"It's okay."

Dean pounded the steering wheel. "No, it's not. I made you a promise, kid. You and Dad both. And I messed up." Another thought hit him. "Did you take your next dose of medicine? You were due about a half hour ago?"

"Forgot. We were cleaning weapons."

"You've been cleaning weapons all this time?"

"Not all. Practiced some incantations and stuff." Sam sighed, falling silent, his head against the window.

"So Dad didn't let you rest any at all? Sam, it's nearly 1 am."

"...Tired now, Dean."

"No, wait, Sam. Don't fall asleep til we get you warmed up, okay? Just hang on. We're here now." Dean pulled up to the door of their motel room to the sight of the door whipping open and an irate John Winchester storming out.

"Where the hell have you been, Dean!" He began, but Dean cut him off, stepping out of the car and moving swiftly around to the passenger side to help Sam. "I lost track of the time. I'm sorry. Dad, how could you send Sam out walking in this cold?" He accused. "He all but froze to death."

John glanced down at his youngest as Dean helped drag him from the car. He saw that the boy was on his feet and his eyes were open, and that's all he needed to see. "You're exaggerating again, Dean." He sighed, tossing the weapons bag he toted into the back seat. "Sam's fine. And I had no way to get in touch with you. What happened to your phone, anyway?"

"Long story." Dean growled. "No more questions til I get Sam thawed out." He half-pulled, half-led his brother into the motel, slamming the door shut behind him with one foot.

"Come on, Sam." He muttered. "Into the bathroom. I'll get the tub running."

Dean heard the motel door open, but he didn't spare a glance as he leaned Sam against the sink and bent to turn the water on. He heard a sigh.

"Alright, listen boys." John began. "I got an emergency call about a possible ghoul about two hours up the road. I have to leave right now. You can hang out here til I get back. Shouldn't be more than a couple of days." John finished gathering up his things and stopped in the bathroom doorway. He looked them both over and smiled. "You got everything here, Dean?" He asked.

Dean was facing away from their dad when he rolled his eyes, but he said simply, "Yeah, I got this, Dad. You go do what you gotta do. Sammy and I will get along just fine."

"That's my boys." John answered, proudly. He bumped Sam gently on the shoulder with his fist. "I'll call when I have an update."

"Bye, Dad." Sam offered softly.

"Bye Sammy." He replied, waiting for a response from his oldest. When none was forthcoming, he sighed again and turned to go. "Take care of each other, and make sure you put down the salt lines after I leave. I left some cash on the nightstand."

"We will, Dad." Sam again.

"Later then." And he walked out and closed the door behind him. Moments later, they heard the rumble of the Impala roaring to life, but Dean was too preoccupied to care much.

"Here you go, Sammy. It's nice and warm." He eyed his brother leaning heavily against the sink. "You, uh ... you gonna need help getting in?"

Sam snorted. "No, Dean. I can undress myself, thanks." He smiled lazily.

"Well, okay then. Holler if you need anything, okay? I'll go heat you up some soup."

"Okay." Sam replied, moving toward the tub. "Hey Dean?" He stopped and turned to face his brother.

Dean stopped in the doorway and turned back, "Yeah Sammy?"

Sam hesitated, "Thanks." he said simply.

Dean was confused, "For what?"

Sam smiled as he bent down to turn the water off. "For giving a shit."

Dean swallowed hard, blinking back something that felt ridiculously too close to being a tear. "Get in the tub, bitch." he choked out.

Sam snorted, "Get outta my face first, Jerk."


	3. Tell Me What to Do, Sam

Two hours later, Sam felt more comfortable than he had in days. The bath had warmed his outsides, and Dean's soup, made by running bottled water through the coffee pot and adding a pouch of powder with noodles, warmed his insides. And then the green medicine that burned the whole way down and made him feel sleepy and good all over was just the icing on the cake. Dean knew exactly how to make Sam feel okay again every time he was sure the world was ending.

And, apparently, it was - one state over.

"Dad." Dean explained into his phone again. "How can I?"

"Just get here, Dean. It's worse than I thought. I can't do this one without you. Ideally, I'd like Sam too, but if you say he's too sick, then he's too sick. No use bringing in a liability."

That got Dean's bristles in a bunch. "Sammy's never been a liability, Dad." He blurted without thinking, then mentally kicked himself when he saw his brother flinch.

"He is if you've got him all doped up on medicine." John growled. "I swear, Dean. You coddle your brother way too much. It's just a damned cold."

Dean knew his brother never got "just a cold." Sam didn't get sick often, but when he did, he did it up right. "It's more than that now." he growled. "I'm not the one who sent him out into the snow barely dressed."

"I'm not the one who wouldn't pick up my damned phone!" John replied. "Now I'm done arguing with you over this. Caleb's about 20 minutes out, and he's swinging by to pick you up. You be ready, or else." The phone went silent.

"Dammit!" Dean cursed, tempted to pitch his phone at the wall.

"Dad needs help, doesn't he?" Sam asked quietly from the other bed. He punctuated his question with a raspy cough that sounded like some important organ had just been expelled.

Dean winced at the sound, and avoided his brother's eyes. "Yeah." He answered, deflated. He risked a glance at his brother, and his heart broke at the small, huddled lump swallowed up by blankets. "I don't know what to do, Sammy." He flopped down on his bed with a sigh, "Tell me what to do."

"If Dad needs help, you have to go." He said simply, and tried not to cry at the broken look on his brother's face. "Dad's right, you know. It is just a cold. I'll be fine here til you get back." He stretched lazily. "I'm feeling pretty chill right now, in fact." He shared a 100-watt smile.

Dean snorted. "You always did have a low tolerance for chemical substances. You're going to be a fun drunk, Sam."

"Anyway, I just plan to sleep til you get back. I could sleep for days, I think. And this bed feels so good."

"It should, you're hogging all the pillows." Dean complained without meaning it. It was Dean, after all, who'd piled every pillow and blanket in the room onto Sam's bed, creating a sort of nest for him to snuggle into.

"Just leave me the green stuff and some of the hot cocoa pouches, and I'll be good." Sam replied.

"Yeah, you're not living on cocoa powder for three days, bitch."

"Leave the soup too."

Dean was more torn than he could ever remember feeling. His need to take care of his brother was so ingrained in him that he wasn't sure he could just turn it off and go do a hunt. A hunter couldn't afford distraction. And Dean knew if he left Sam here all alone like this - sick and run down - he'd be hard pressed to think about anything else.

"Maybe I could call Bobby to come get you?" He voiced out loud.

"I'll be fine, Dean. I promise." Sam said sleepily, the medicine taking hold. "Just go. I don't mind, really. If you don't go and something happens to Dad …" he let the thought trail off, unfinished.

Dean stared at his brother, silently weighing the fall-out. Sam had a phone; he could call if he took a turn for the worse. On the other hand, Dad was facing a town full of ghouls, and it would take more than a phone call to get Dean there in a pinch if Dad needed him. He sighed. He really only had one choice.

"Okay." he said, standing up and pulling out his duffle. He moved silently around the room, tossing in just what he thought he'd need for a few days out. When he was done, he make a quick inventory of the food supplies. There was still a whole loaf of bread and half a jar of peanut butter, four pouches of soup, a whole box of instant hot cocoa, and an unopened jar of peaches piled on the table.

It wasn't enough, and Dean knew it.

They could be gone for days if Dad was leading the hunt. John was … driven … that way.

And besides, Sam needed fresh vegetables and fruit juices and good stuff like that if he was going to get better any time soon. Dean swore in frustration.

"It's plenty, Dean." Sam read his mind. "Just leave me a few dollars so I can go grab a sandwich or something from that convenience store across the street, and I'll be good to go." He yawned. "I don't plan on being awake much anyway."

"Look Sammy …" Dean started, then stopped at a bang on the door.

Caleb's voice, "Dean? You in there? We gotta roll, boy."

"Sam!" he tossed the salt bag on the floor by his brother's bed. "Salt up behind me, you hear?"

Sam nodded drowsily. "I mean it, Sam." Dean shook him gently and stared into his eyes. "Salt up. Keep the doors and windows locked. Talk to no one. Got it? I'll make sure my phone is on and with me the whole time. You call if you need anything. Anything? Okay?" He pressed a wad of bills into his brother's hand.

Sam sat up and nodded blearily. "I know, Dean. I will."

Another crash at the door. "Dean!" Caleb bellowed.

"Shit, Sam. I gotta go." Dean said mournfully. "I'll stop at the desk and pay you up for a while, just in case." He stared at his brother. "Don't make me regret this, you hear me?"

Sam nodded. "I'll be fine, Dean, really I will. Just go already. Dad needs you."

Dean nodded. "I'll be back as soon as I can, bitch." he shared that indulgent smile that was reserved strictly for twelve-year-old brothers and reached for the door.

Sam smiled back. "I'll be here."


	4. Your Brother, My Hostage

Finding a way out of this one was going to be a problem, and Jake felt panicky. He didn't remember exactly when he'd made the decision to rob the night clerk at the seedy motel, but he had a vague recollection of the look on the man's face when he'd pulled out the gun. And then the guy had tried to be a hero, and the gun went off, and there was blood all over the desk, and Jake still didn't have any money. All he had now was overwhelming panic rising in his throat and the memory of an asshole judge telling him that the next time he screwed up, he was going down for the count.

Jake wasn't afraid of much, but prison terrified him. He'd visited his father at Riker's off and on for years, until his stepmother had decided a teenager was more trouble than she felt like dealing with. She'd given him $50 and a one-way bus ticket to Minneapolis with strict instructions to never come back.

That was three years and a trail of petty crimes ago, and not much really bothered him anymore. Even the idea that he'd just murdered an unarmed man didn't really concern him. What did concern him was the fear of getting caught and tossed in prison. He'd do anything he had to do, hurt anyone who got in his way, to avoid ending up like his father - locked away and forgotten forever.

And it was this thought that rocketed through his mind when he came up behind the rangy kid standing at the ice machine. He didn't really have any plan in his mind to take a hostage, but when the kid turned unexpectedly and nearly ran right into him, he pulled his gun and shoved it into the boy's side.

Damn. The kid felt like he was on fire.

"Take me to your room." Jake growled at the startled boy. He saw his eyes grow wide and heard the clatter of the ice bucket as it fell from the boy's hand. "Who's in there with you?"

The boy stammered, "My-my dad and-and older brother."

"Damn!" Jake muttered, realizing suddenly that he'd make a mistake, but it was too late to turn back now. "Right," he snarled and propelled the boy to the room he said was his. "In we go."

Jake held the boy in front of himself like a shield as they entered the room, and was surprised by the lack of movement. It took him only a moment to realize no one else was there, and he grinned. "Dad and big bro, hunh?" He tormented. "You're a fucking liar, kid." He kicked the door shut behind them, locked it, and shoved the kid onto the nearest bed. He made a quick check of the bathroom and then relaxed. He tucked his gun back into the waistband of his pants and stood grinning at the boy who looked like he was about to faint at any minute.

"You sick or something? What's your name, anyway?" He asked, moving to peer out the closed blinds.

No answer.

"Listen, kid. Don't piss me the fuck off, okay? I just killed a guy, and I got nothing to lose, you get it? So when I ask you a question, you answer me."

Silence.

"Really?" Jake snarled ominously, advancing toward the terrified figure still huddled on the bed in the same position he'd tossed him. "You really want to go this route?" He pulled out his gun and held it to the boy's temple.

"Do I need to ask again?" He cocked it.

"Sam."

"Sam what?"

"Winchester."

"How old are you, Winchester?"

A pause ..."Fifteen."

Jake laughed. "Boy, you ain't no fifteen. Stop lying. Liars piss me off." He smacked the boy lightly in the head with the weapon. "How old are you, really? What? Ten?"

Sam's eyes flared. "I'm twelve."

"You're twelve." Jake snickered. "So where are Daddy and big bro? Hunh? They coming back soon?"

Nothing.

Jake swore. "Well, if you ain't gonna talk to me then there's no reason to keep you around, right?" And he drew back a fist and punched the boy square in the face, knocking him off the bed and onto the floor where he lay motionless.

"Damn, I hate kids." He grumbled as he flopped the boy into the one chair in the room and tore a sheet into sturdy strips. He tied the boy's hands to the arms and his feet to the legs, and fashioned a third strip into a gag. He tied it tightly around the boy's mouth, wrapping it several times - mummy-like. Then he added a blindfold for extra security.

He was doing a recon of the room and helping himself to the wad of cash he'd just found stuffed under a mattress when the kid's cell phone rang. Jake let it ring out and then listened to the message from someone named Dean.

"Hey Sammy. Pick up your phone, why don't ya? Dad and me are winding it up here, and we'll be heading back that way shortly. So you can look for us in about three hours, okay? You better be in the can, kid, cause I'm calling back as soon as I hang up, and you better answer. Got it? Otherwise, I'm sending 911."

Jake felt the panic rising again. The kid sounded like he was joking, but what if he wasn't? He experienced a moment of blind terror, and then the phone began ringing again. Without pausing to think it through, he picked up.

"Sammy?"

Silence.

"Sam, you okay?"

"Yeah, uh, Sam can't come to the phone right now."

Silence.

"Who the fuck is this?"

Jake sensed sudden fear in the other boy's voice, and it felt amazing.

"Name's Jake."

"What the hell are you doing on my brother's phone?"

"Well, he's a little … tied up right now. Can I take a message?"

Silence.

"Listen to me, you fucker. You better put Sam on the phone right now, or I'm gonna come rip your damn lungs out."

"But you're … three hours away, Dean."

An intake of breath from the other end of the line.

"A lot can happen in three hours, Dean."

"Listen, you fucker, if you even think of …"

But Jake cut him off. "I will if you send 911." He bargained. "See, I kind of did a stupid thing, and I killed a guy and then I needed a place to hide, and then suddenly there was Sammy Winchester standing at the ice machine like a gift from God. So I thought I'd just hole up with him for a day or two while I thought things through. You know, Dean. Just until I think up a plan. Sam's fine for now - well, sort of - but he won't be if you send anyone to this room. Got it?"

Jake could just feel the fear emanating in waves from the phone. "What do you mean, sort of?" Dean breathed.

"Well, Sam, being 12 years old and all - he kind of copped a shitty attitude, and I had to give him an adjustment, you know? He's also burning hotter than a furnace - hence the ice machine, I guess. I hope he doesn't combust before you make it back."

"What did you do, you fucker?"

Jake laughed. "Relax, Dean. He'll be conscious again by the time you and Daddy get back. Well - unless he gives me more shit. Then I can't be responsible."

"I am going to end you, you son of a bitch." Dean growled. "If you put one hand on my brother, I will end you. You got that?"

"Oops." Jake replied. "Too late. Bye Dean. See you in three."


	5. Frantic

Dean couldn't breathe. He couldn't freaking breathe. He'd made the wrong choice and left Sammy behind, and now he was going to pay the ultimate price. His worst fear had come to pass - some maniac had happened on Sam while he was all alone, and now Sam - and Dean - were going to pay too high a price for that mistake. He doubled over right there beside the Impala and lost the dinner he'd eaten not a half-hour ago. If that asshole did … anything … to Sam, Dean wouldn't be able to go on.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was behind the wheel and gunning the engine for home. Let Dad find his own way back. He'd stayed behind with Caleb, cleaning up - which, in Winchester speak, meant he was salting and burning everything in the vicinity. Dean was supposed to wait for them so they could all head back together. But screw that. Sam was in serious trouble. Dean knew if he stayed off the main highway, he could push the limit and cut his time nearly in half. That would give him the element of surprise when he took out the bastard that dared to lay hands on his little brother.

He thought of Sam then - of how miserable the kid had felt, and of that last blinding smile he'd shot Dean anyway. Damn. Sammy was such a good kid. He so didn't deserve this. And then Dean thought of the ice machine. That damned ice machine that was clear at the other end of the motel. Sammy had been there, getting ice to help down his fever. If Dean had been there, it would have been him the asshole encountered, and not his sick, practically helpless kid brother. Dean knew Sam was out of it, or the asshole who had him would have never had that much information. Sam would never give away his real name, his age ... not any of that ... to a stranger. Not unless he had no other choice.

Why hadn't Dean been there instead?

Dean would have taken the guy out with one well-timed fist to the face. Then he'd left him wallow there in his own blood while he calmly filled his ice bucket and carried it back to Sam. Then they'd have laughed together over the foolishness of some damn stranger trying to get the best of Dean Winchester.

That's how it should have gone down. But thanks to Dad …

"Dammit!" Dean pounded the steering wheel, sudden tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "Why did I leave you, Sammy? Why? I knew not to leave you." He flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial for Dad, then. Of course, nobody bothered to answer.

"Dad! Some asshole has Sammy. I'm headed back to the motel right now. Call me." He said, short and sweet, and dropped the phone on the seat beside him.

"I'm coming, Sammy." He whispered. "Just hold on. Hold on for me please, Sam."


	6. The Consequences of My Impulsive Actions

Was the kid choking?

Jake sat looking at the boy whom he'd trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and wondered at the strange noises he was making. At first, they'd sounded sort of like coughs, or maybe sobs, but then they turned into something else - noises like Jake had never heard before - and they sort of scared him. He didn't want to kill the kid, after all; he just needed time to think.

"Hey kid. What's wrong?" He asked as he quickly unwound the gag he'd wrapped so tightly around his prisoner's head.

Immediately, the kid leaned forward and expelled what looked like a lung's worth of … stuff … onto the carpet.

"Ugh, damn." Jake jumped back. "What the hell? You okay, Sam?"

The boy coughed weakly, leaning forward as far as he could while bound hand and foot to the chair. He struggled to catch his breath, and the sounds he made ignited that old familiar feeling of panic in his captor.

"Kid, kid, here. Let me help." Jake quickly whipped the blindfold off and untied Sam's arms so he could lean all the way over and put his head between his knees.

"You ain't gonna die on me, are ya?" Jake pounded on the boy's back to help. "I get the feeling your big bro ain't gonna like it if he shows up and you're dead."

"Gonna .. puke." Sam struggled to speak.

"Oh! Well, here." Jake grabbed the trash can and sat it between the kid's knees, as Sam instantly brought up everything he'd eaten in the last day. Fortunately, it wasn't much.

Jake sat staring at the kid - at his eyes streaming with tears and his face so pale Jake could practically see through him - and he suddenly wondered what the hell he was doing here, torturing some innocent 12-year-old kid and making yet another enemy of the kid's big brother, who sounded … scary crazy. Jake had enough people in his life who hated him, he sure didn't need to be out generating more.

"Wait." Jake told the boy. "Let me get these." He quickly untied Sam's feet from the chair. "You need to use the bathroom? Go clean yourself up?"

Sam stared at his captor through eyes blurred by fever, "Please?" He asked softly. "Can I?"

"Yeah, kid. Sure." Jake replied. "Just don't try any funny stuff, okay?"

"I w-won't." Sam stuttered, feeling so bad he could barely stand.

"What's wrong with you, kid?"

"Got the flu or … something."

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, he wasn't sure what to do. He stood hesitating in the doorway, staring at the stranger who seemed to blow so hot and cold.

"You wanna lay down, or something?" The man asked him.

"Can I .. can I have my medicine?"

"Oh, your medicine. Sure. Where is it?"

Sam glanced at the table where the man was sitting.

Jake followed his eyes to the green bottle. "Oh. This?"

Sam nodded.

Jake tossed him the bottle. "Sure."

Sam took the medicine and drank directly from the bottle since no measuring cup was forthcoming. He swiped the back of his mouth with his hand and sat back against the headboard, knees drawn up, making himself as small as possible. He watched the man warily.

Jake snorted. "What's the matter, kid?"

"You-you going to shoot me?"

"I don't know. You going to make me?"

Sam shook his head.

"Gave you a hell of a shiner, though, didn't I? Sorry about that. Sometimes I get a little … carried away. You ever get carried away, Sam?"

Sam stared silently.

"Not much one for words, are you, Sam?" Jake noted. "How about your brother? He ever get carried away?"

Sam shook his head.

Jake snorted. "Somehow I don't believe that." He said. "He sounded like he planned to pull my head off my shoulders when he gets here."

Silence.

Jake sighed. "I didn't plan this, you know." He explained. "It just … happened. Sometimes I don't think things through like I should, you know? My shrink calls it impulse control. She says I'm impulsive, Sam. I look impulsive to you?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"That black eye you got there. That was me being impulsive. Tying you up? That was impulsive too. And answering the phone when your brother called? That was the most impulsive of all. Well, unless you count the guy I left bleeding out up in the office."

Sam's eye grew big as saucers.

"You wanna call him? Your brother? Let him know you're okay?"

Sam looked hard to see if the guy was just toying with him, but he looked sincere. Sam nodded.

"Sure." Jake shrugged. "Go ahead. Call him." He tossed Sam his phone.

Sam took the phone with shaky hands and hit the only number that was programmed into speed dial. It rang once before sam heard Dean's voice on the other end.

"Where's my brother, you son of a bitch?"


	7. I'll Do What I Have to Do

"D-Dean?"

Dean swore and slammed on the brakes, rocketing the car over onto the shoulder.

"Sammy! You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay, Dean."

"Sam, what's going on? You get away?"

"No. He's-he's still here." Sam's voice hitched.

Dean saw red. "He's still there with you in the room? He hurt you, Sam?"

Sam paused. "No. Not really. Just got a black eye."

"Son of a bitch! He hit you?"

"Yeah, and- and tied me up for awhile. I-I threw up, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes and prayed for strength because when he got this guy who was torturing his baby brother, nothing was going to stop him from tearing the bastard's heart out with his bare hands.

"Just hang on for me, Sammy, okay? I'm coming. I swear. I'll get you out of this."

Sam's voice, sounding small. "I know." Dean could tell he was trying not to cry.

"You still feeling bad, Sam?"

"Yeah. Worse. He let me take some medicine though."

"So, you're not tied up now?"

"No, I'm on my bed."

Dean was suddenly terrified. "Where is he?"

"He's sitting at the table, watching me."

"He's watching you? He knows you're talking to me?"

"Yeah, he said I could call you if I wanted - to let you know I'm alright."

"Sammy, is he making you say that?"

"No, Dean. I'm okay, honest. I'm just-just scared is all."

Dean swallowed hard at the lost tone in his little brother's voice. "I know, Sammy. Just hang in there, okay?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I-I went outside. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. It's just … my head hurt so bad. I wanted to wrap up some ice …"

"It's okay. It's not your fault, little brother, okay? I should have been there. This … this is on me."

Silence.

"Sam? Sammy!"

Another voice, "I think he's drifting off, Dean."

Dean snarled low in his throat. "What are you playing at, you son of a bitch? Why won't you let my brother go?"

A sigh. "I need time to think. You ever need a plan and not have one, Dean?"

"My brother is not in your plan, you sick bastard. Just let him go. Leave him there and get out."

"Yeah, I can't do that. Sorry."

"Why not?"

Another sigh. "You ever meet the night clerk here, Dean?" he asked. "The guy with the bad toupee and the mustache?"

Dean squinted, this guy was out of his freaking mind. "Yeah? So?"

"So, I sort of killed him. I didn't mean to. It was an accident. Well, kind of."

Dean stopped breathing. He'd killed a man. The bastard who had Sammy had killed someone. He had nothing left to lose.

"Why?" He swallowed.

"Because I needed cash. I was trying to just rob him, but suddenly he pulls out this freaking taser and I … panicked. So I shot him and left him bleeding out on the desk. Eventually, someone's going to find him, and then the cops will come, and then I'll need a hostage. I'm not going to prison, Dean. Not ever." His voice faded out.

"Listen…" Dean started.

"And when they come and that happens, it'll have to be Sam." he sounded sad. "I'm sorry I hit him, you know. I want you to know that. I had a brother once."

Dean didn't like where this was heading. The guy sounded a little too … hopeless. "No, it doesn't have to be Sam." Dean pleaded. "I'll be your hostage. I'll come and take his place. I'll meet you anywhere you want. Just leave Sam behind there at the motel, and I'll come and pick you up - take you wherever you want to go."

Silence.

"You hear me? I'll be your hostage!"

The guy chuckled. "No offense, Dean. But you're kind of a scary guy."

"What?"

"I have a feeling I wouldn't fare too well if you and I were ever in the same room together."

"No. I promise. I won't try a thing. I'll do whatever you ask." Dean practically begged. "I'll do it for Sam."

A pause. "Sam seems like a good kid."

Dean leaped on that, "He is! He's the best kid. That's why you have to let him go. Get out of there before the trouble starts and he gets sucked into it. Please!"

"I wish I could, Dean." the guy said in a faraway voice. "I wish I had more control over the things I do. I wish I hadn't shot that clerk, and I wish I had run in the other direction when I did. Mostly, I wish Sam hadn't been standing at the ice machine. Wrong place, wrong time, you know?"

Dean knew. Boy, did he know.

"You don't have to do this." Dean was begging now, openly begging, and he didn't care one bit.

"I can't go to prison, Dean. You need to understand that. I spent my whole childhood in and out of Riker's, visiting my father. It was horrible - just the nightmares that place gave me. I can't ever go in one of those places. I can't. I'll do whatever it takes … hurt whoever I have to." he paused. "Even if it … even if it's a just a kid. I'll do it. I will."

Tears escaped then, and trailed silently down Dean's face. "Please." he begged. "Please don't hurt my brother."

"We'll see you soon, Dean. Drive safe."


	8. It's Okay to Say Goodbye

Jake stood looking down at the sleeping boy. He felt regret, but he knew if they stayed, he'd likely end up using him as a shield. Then they'd both die. And if he left him behind, he'd have to kill him. The boy knew too much already. Jake knew he tended to get too chatty - to share too much with strangers - but sometimes he just couldn't stop the words from escaping - especially when he had a captive audience.

No, it would be better if they both hit the road - left before the clerk was discovered, left before the police were called - left before the kid's brother rolled into town. He briefly considered leaving the boy behind - just walking away while the kid slept and locking the door behind him.

But he needed a hostage. And he was comfortable with Sam - sort of trusted him. The boy was easy to control. And if he did remind him just a bit of Mark, well, Jake wasn't going to admit it.

Also, he was tired of being alone. There was that too.

If he took Sam along, maybe he could release him a few states over - once it was safe.

So Jake reached gently down and shook the boy. "Hey, Sam. Time to wake up."

"Lemme sleep, Dean. Sick." He buried his face back in the pillow.

"Sorry kiddo. We gotta get going."

Sam remembered then, because he came instantly awake and guarded. He stared up at Jake with a spark of fear in his glassy eyes, waiting to see what his captor was going to do next.

"Listen, grab what you need, and make it quick, you hear? We're hitting the road."

Sam slithered back across the sheets until he was backed up against the headboard. "No." He said simply.

"What?"

"No, I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm waiting here for Dean."

Jake squinted, anger finding its purchase, "Yes, you are. I need a hostage, and you're volunteering."

Sam swallowed hard, finding his courage, "What if I don't? What if I scream and kick and yell?"

Jake was on him in a heartbeat, grabbing Sam's chin in a grip powerful enough to leave bruises, he stared viciously into the boy's eyes. "Then you die." He held up the gun. "You get it now? Or," he teased gently. "We wait around for big bro to come home and shoot him in the head when he busts through the door. Would you like that better?"

Sam's eyes teared up. He shook his head as much as Jake's iron grip allowed.

"No?" Jake sneered. "No what? No, you won't cooperate, or no we don't blow Dean's head off his shoulders?"

"No, don't h-hurt Dean." Sam hitched. "I'll go with you. Just please, don't-don't shoot my brother."

Jake smiled, devoid of warmth, and lightly slapped Sam's cheek. "Good boy." He said condescendingly. "You learn quick. I like that. Now get up and get dressed. Grab whatever you need, and make it quick before we have to test that theory out."

The threat against his brother was all Sam needed to get him moving. He was used to packing up in a pinch anyway, and the added incentive just made him that much quicker. He grabbed the few clothes he owned, his toiletries from the bathroom, and the bottles of medicine from the table. When Jake wasn't looking, he slipped a hand under the mattress and came up clean. His lighter was also missing from the nightstand.

"Got the cash and the knife, kid," Jake drawled. "the lighter too. But nice try."

Sam pretended he hadn't heard and reached down for the half-filled salt bag. "Leave it!" Jake barked. "What's the salt for, anyway?"

Sam gulped. "Just superstitious, I guess. It helps me sleep better."

Jake stared, "You mean it keeps the monsters away?" He snorted. "Trust me, Sam. It don't. The monsters are out there, and they'll find you regardless." He suddenly pointed at himself. "Proof enough?"

Sam stared. "C-can I have my phone?"

Jake shook his head. "Sorry. They can track us with that." He said, sounding genuinely sad. He tossed Sam the phone and a pen. "Here, write down any numbers you wanna keep. I don't care if you call home, but we'll have to use throwaway phones."

Sam flipped the phone open and quickly jotted down both Dean and his dad's numbers. Then he added Bobby's just in case. He looked up. "Can I call him one last time before we go?"

Jake stared down at him, looking so young and so hopeful and so - like Mark - and suddenly, he couldn't tell the boy no. "Yeah. It's okay to say goodbye, but nothing funny, you hear? Go ahead. Make it quick." He turned away to toss what little food there was into a crumpled plastic grocery bag.

So Sam dialed, and Dean picked up immediately. "Sam?"

"Hi Dean." Sam said softly, on the verge of tears. He knew, he just knew, that once he left this motel room, he was never going to see his big brother ever again.

Dean knew immediately that something was up. "Sammy, what's wrong?" he asked, heart breaking.

"We're leaving," He couldn't stop the tears then. Once they started flowing, his voice got all choked up and thick. He knew he sounded like a baby crying over a lost toy but he just couldn't help himself. "Dean, we're leaving, and I'm scared I'm never going to see you again. I-I wanted to say goodbye." He was sobbing now.

"Sammy." Dean was crying too. Sam could tell. And that scared him worse than anything. Sam couldn't remember the last time he saw his big brother - the mighty Dean Winchester - cry. "Sammy stop that, okay? This isn't goodbye. I'm gonna find you - wherever you go. You hear me? I won't stop looking for you, that's a promise."

Dean's worst fear was coming true. He'd figured the guy would make a run for it. What reason could he possibly have to stick around waiting for Dean to show up? He'd just hoped it wouldn't come this soon. He was still a good 40 minutes out.

"Okay." Sam hiccuped into the phone. "Okay, Dean. I-I'll stop. I told him I don't wanna go, but he's making me."

"How Sammy? What'd he do?"

Sam stared straight at Jake, "H-he said he'll blow your head off your shoulders if we're still here when you come." his voice broke. "So don't come right now, Dean. Okay? If you're close. Just … wait til we're gone. Please Dean? Please wait?"

Dean swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "I can't do that Sam. I'm sorry. I'm coming for you and that's that. It'll be okay, I promise little bro. It's going to be okay. You just be strong for me, okay? You remember everything that Dad and I taught you, and you'll be fine til I get there. Promise me?"

"I pro … wait! wait! please!"

Silence.

Dean choked. "Sammy?" he cried. "Sammy!" But the only sound he heard was silence on the other end of the line and the noise of his own pain-filled sobs as they pumped like blood from his shattered heart.


	9. I'm Not Losing My Brother

Dean watched the motel for a solid half hour before he finally decided that his brother was sure and truly gone. The door to their room was closed, the ice bucket still upended by the ice machine where Sam had left it. There were no cops. No ambulance - just the stillness of a seedy, backwater motel in the predawn hours.

Dean checked the room anyway, and what he found told him what his brother's words hadn't. Sam's things were gone. The food was gone - Sam's knife and the cash too. Whoever this guy was, he'd given Sam time to pack up and take what few belongings he owned. That, at least, was some comfort. On the nightstand, though, he found Sam's phone.

"Dammit, Sammy." He mourned as his knees failed him, and he sank weightlessly onto the bed. He flipped it open and found one text in progress, saved as a draft.

"Stole a Buick, hdng south. Chck the sec cam by the office. Will rmbr wht u n dad tot me. I'll wait fr u dn. Pls hrry. Sam."

Dean smiled. "That's my boy, Sammy. You hang in there. I'm coming."

Dean hurriedly grabbed what few remaining items belonged to the Winchesters, stowed them in the trunk, and then headed for the office. He noticed the cameras mounted over the front door - one facing the lot and the other pointed at the check-in desk. He stepped inside and flicked the lock on the door behind him. He flipped the sign on the door to read "No Vacancy" and carefully stepped around the body that lay lifeless behind the counter. In a back room he found the monitors and carefully rewound the tapes.

They told him everything he needed to know.

They told him what the kid who shot the clerk looked like, and Dean swallowed hard when he realized he couldn't have been much older than himself. They showed him the make and model of the only Buick in the lot. And toward the end of the tape, they showed him an image of his little brother as he'd stepped inside the office to steal a road map. Sammy had studiously avoided looking toward the desk, but Dean's hands clenched into fists when his brother stared intently up at the security cam. One whole side of his face was swollen and discolored. He mouthed a single word - "Arizona."

"Son of a bitch." Dean swore. "When I get my hands on …" But he was interrupted by his phone ringing. He snagged it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller, flipping it open immediately.

"Dad."

"What the hell's going on, Dean? Who has Sam?"

Dean swallowed hard, "Some kid that looks to be about 20. They stole a Buick, and they're headed for Arizona." He filled his father in as he popped the tapes out of the VCR and strode from the office. He tossed the tapes in the backseat and fired up the engine. "Where are you, by the way?" Dean growled, studying his own road map that he'd snagged from the rack by the door.

"Caleb and I are about an hour away still. I'm … I'm sorry, Dean. We got … caught up. I just got your message."

"Yeah, whatever. Did Sam call you at all?"

"What? No. Why? Did he call you?"

"He did. He called to … to say goodbye."

Silence, "Dean …"

"I'm gonna get him back, Dad. I swear. I'll get him back if it's the last thing I ever do." Dean peeled out of the parking lot, heading for I-35 South. "They'll probably take I-35 down to I-70. I'm heading that way now."

"Sam say anything else?" John cleared his throat. "Is he … hurt?"

"Got a hell of a shiner."Dean snapped. "I shoulda been here, Dad. None of this would have happened if I'd been here. The guy's a killer. He shot the night clerk here at the motel."

"Son of a … Dean! Give us a chance to catch up. We'll swing by and pick up Bobby, and we'll go after him together. There's strength in numbers."

Dean snorted, "You do what you want, Dad, but there's not a chance in hell I'm pulling over for an hour to wait for you. Sammy needs me - just like he needed me last night. And I'll be damned if I'll let him down again. An hour could mean the difference between life and death, and I'm not losing my brother."

"Dean …"

"Gotta go, Dad." Dean snapped his phone shut and pushed the pedal to the floor.


	10. I Have Him, and I'm Keeping Him

Sam sat huddled tight against the passenger door of the old Buick. Everything about the car sucked - the smell that reminded him of stale French fries, the radio that was tuned to the kind of music Dean liked, and the failing heater that gave off less comfort by the mile.

Sam was miserable. He was cold. He was hungry. And he still watched the world through a raging fever that left him feeling a bit out of it. He felt disassociated from things, and he hated the feeling. He risked a glance at Jake and shivered when he found his captor staring straight back. Sam hunched a little more into the door to put as much space as possible between them.

"We've been on the road for hours, Sam." Jake suddenly spoke up. "Think it's safe enough to stop for something to eat?"

Jake had started doing that - asking for Sam's input - as soon as they were out of the room. "Think we should take the Buick, Sam? Or the Tempo? A road map might come in handy, you think?" And then, once he'd sent Sam in to steal the map and they'd come back to the room so Jake could study it for a few minutes, "You think Dean will come after us, Sam?" That's when Sam had taken the initiative to draft a text to his brother, knowing Dean would check the phone first thing.

It was creepy the way Jake insisted on making Sam a participant in his own abduction, and Sam was determined not to play along. So far, he'd gotten away with just nodding or shaking his head whenever Jake prodded him, but he had a nagging suspicion that was only going work for so long. Jake definitely had anger management issues - Sam had seen and felt that firsthand. And while he was scared to intentionally do anything to upset the older boy, he also had the Winchester pride. And that's what kept him from answering when Jake asked about stopping somewhere to eat.

Jake sighed loudly then, and Sam could hear an undercurrent of annoyance in his voice. "You haven't said two words since we left the motel, Mark. What are you pissed about now?"

Sam looked up then, "Hunh?"

"I said, why are you so pissed all of a sudden?"

"Who's Mark?"

"What?"

"Y-you called me Mark."

"I did? Oh. Sorry. I meant Sam." Jake looked away. "Aren't you starving?"

Sam was a lot of things right then - sad, sick and terrified among them - but starving didn't figure into the mix. One of those things was not like the others. He shrugged, not wanting to alienate Jake any further.

"Right. Well, I am starving. We should probably lose these tags soon too."

Sam's heart dropped. Switching tags would make it harder for Dean to find him, but at least Jake hadn't said anything about switching cars. Sam could live with the smell and the cold just so long as it meant keeping this car that he was sure Dean had gotten a glimpse of on the security camera.

"I-I guess I could eat." He said, planning to put distance between himself and his captor as soon as the car stopped.

Jake glanced over and smiled. "Me too. And that," He gestured to a sign for a Barb's Kitchen, "Looks like just what the doctor ordered." He pulled off the highway and clattered to a stop in the gravel lot. The place was deserted for 10 am, but maybe that was a good thing. It would give Sam more room to maneuver when he made his break.

Jake had no sooner put the car in park then Sam was out the door and running. He headed back across the lot to the highway with the plan of flagging down a passing car. He was slowed by the dizziness that engulfed him, however, and by the nauseous feeling that kicked up inside his stomach as he ran. And by the time he reached the side of the exit ramp, he was doubled over in pain, puking up the last of the green medicine that he'd taken an hour earlier on an empty stomach. He tried to crawl right out into the road in the hopes that a passing motorist would be forced to either stop or run him down, but the ramp was deserted. Sam could see cars passing by out on the main drag, but none made the exit for Barb's Kitchen. He silently mourned the luck that had forced Jake to pick a small, local joint instead of a popular food chain that might actually have had customers during breakfast rush.

"Bad idea. Sam." Jake snarled, as he yanked the boy to his feet. "Really. Bad. Idea." He half-dragged, half-carried him back across the lot and pushed him into the car through the driver's side. He kept a firm hand on Sam's arm as he stared intently at the boy. "Now I'm going to let you go so I can start the car, but if you bolt again." He dragged Sam's face to his own. "If you bolt again, I will shoot you. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded, tears streaking his face. He'd been so close, so close.

"And you're going to pay for that little stunt, little brother. You hear me? As soon as we get checked in someplace with that nice wad of cash that Dean left behind, you will pay."

Sam felt a new rush of nausea when Jake called him by that same term of endearment that Dean had used so often in his young life. Then he just felt angry. "Don't call me that!" He growled.

Jake looked surprised. "What?"

"I'm not your little brother. Don't ever call me that again. Not you."

"Why would I …?" Jake started and then stopped. "Whatever." He said, dropping Sam's arm and starting the engine. "You just worry about what's gonna happen later, Sam. That's all you need to be thinking about right now, you got it?"

And Sam did. In fact, during the twenty minute drive to a motel that was secluded enough to meet Jake's approval, his impending punishment was all Sam could think about. He was sure Jake was going to hurt him, and badly, by the look of things. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop it. Sam was a fighter, no doubt about it, well-trained by a father who was driven by obsession and by a brother who demanded that Sam be able to defend himself if the need arose. And on another day, he might have taken the older boy easily. But with his head pounding a staccato of regret inside his skull and his insides churning every time he took a step, Sam's offense was weak at best. It was all he could do to stay on his feet and blinking, let alone even consider trying to fight back. He knew his best chance for surviving was just to take whatever Jake felt like dishing out. It would probably hurt like hell, but he'd do it. He'd do it for Dean. He'd promised Dean he'd wait for him, and he would. And he intended to still be alive when his big brother showed up. If that meant being someone's punching bag for a few days, so be it. Bruises healed, after all. And he was pretty sure he could take anything that Jake could dish out. He was a Winchester, after all, and Winchesters didn't let a little thing like pain get in the way.

He was thinking these things as Jake tied him securely to the armchair in the damp motel room. There had been a coil of rope and some climbing equipment stashed in the trunk of the Buick, and that's what Jake used to secure Sam in place so tightly he could barely breathe. He finished his work by jamming a washcloth from the bathroom tightly into Sam's mouth. Then the older boy took a step back and studied his work. He smiled a frosty smile then, and pulled a phone from his pocket.

"I liked this phone, Sam." He said. "And it pisses me off that I'll have to ditch it now. But oh well." He pulled Sam's duffle open and rooted through it until he found the scrap of paper with the three numbers written on. He dialed the first one on the list as Sam stared helplessly on.

It was picked up in the middle of the first ring. Jake put it on speaker.

"Hello?" Dean's voice, hopeful.

"Hiya Dean."

Silence.

"Let me talk to Sam." Dean barked.

"Well, actually, Sam is the reason I'm calling."

"So put him on the phone already."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Sam did something very bad today, Dean. I'm afraid I had to - I had to hurt him."

Sam's eyes grew wide as he began struggling against the ropes that held him tight.

Silence. Then Dean's voice, breaking. "You son of a bitch. If you touched one hair on …"

"Shut up! I'm running this show. You got that? Not you. Not your pain-in-the-ass brother. Me!"

"What did you do, you fucker?"

"Well, he tried to run away, and I can't have that now can I?"

Silence.

"So, I taught him a hard lesson."

Sam could hear Dean's angry breathing through the phone, and he struggled to spit out the gag. Struggled with all he had free his voice so he could warn his brother that whatever he was about to hear was just a lie - that Jake hadn't done any more than threaten him and tie him up, but the damned washcloth remained wedged tight.

Jake rummaged around in Sam's bag and brought up a prize. "You know that belt Sam has? The one with the big-ass buckle on it? Well, let's just say, Sam's wearing the imprint of that thing all down his back today - the buckle, not the belt."

Dean made a choked noise.

Silence.

"He took it really well, though, Dean." Jake added playfully. "It took a looong time, but he didn't start screaming for you til the end."

Sam screamed in frustration behind the gag and rocked the chair until he thought it would splinter, but no luck.

Dean spoke then, his voice ragged with fury and … something else. "I wanna talk to Sam. Now!"

"Can't." Jake replied, heartlessly. "He's too busy crying in a corner and getting blood all over this nice carpet. If it's any consolation though, Dean, you and Daddy raised him right. He did apologize to me before we were done."

Dean was crying and trying to stifle it, and Sam wanted to die at the sound, "Please … please let me talk to Sam. Let me .. help him. He's just a kid. Please. I'm begging you."

"Nope. Kid has to learn his lesson. I was going to let him call you now and again, but you can both kiss that option goodbye now. I won't put up with bullshit, Dean. And the sooner little Sammy learns that, the better he'll sleep at night - the better we'll all sleep at night."

"You … you fucking son of a bitch. What the fuck is wrong with you? There is nowhere I won't find you. Do you hear me? I will find you, and I will end you. And that's a promise."

"Sticks and stones, Dean. Sticks and stones. That's all you have to threaten me with. But I have Sam. I have him, and I'm keeping him. And if he tries anything like this again … well … let's just say I hope he survives to tell the tale, but no promises. Goodbye, Dean."

"Wait!" Dean begged, but Jake disconnected the call. When the phone began ringing back instantly, Jake moved to the bathroom and tossed it in the toilet. He smiled at Sam's wrecked face and at the eyes that glared back at him with undisguised hatred. He crouched down in front of the helpless boy and gently pushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead.

"You see, Sammy," He explained. "You're just a kid. I won't ever hurt you again. Not like that." He gestured to Sam's black eye. But I need your cooperation if this relationship is ever going to work. You call attention to us again, and I'll call Dean and tell him I sold you to the highest bidder. Got it? Or maybe I'll let him think I dropped you off a bridge somewhere. Maybe I'll buy one of those Halloween tapes of people screaming and play it for him and tell him it's you. Whaddaya think? I can get all kinds of creative, Sam. You understand me?" Jake stood up and retrieved the scrap of paper that had the numbers written on and slipped it into his wallet. "I'll hold on to these now. You won't be needing them anymore."


	11. Got a Friend of a Friend

Dean had never felt so worthless in his life. He sat inside the Impala at the truck stop in Missouri and tried to get a handle on his emotions. Some son of a bitch had just tortured his baby brother, and he couldn't do a thing to stop it. Dean thought about Sam then - huddled in a corner somewhere, broken and bleeding. He'd cried out for Dean and Dean hadn't come, hadn't been there to stop his pain, hadn't been there to protect him.

Suddenly, all Dean could picture was Sammy - grinning that shy grin that inevitably popped up anytime Dean mentioned girls. He saw him sitting quietly in the dark, only his pensive face illuminated by the light of his laptop as he did the research necessary to keep them all safe. Dean blinked away a tear, and there was Sam again, moving lithe like a ninja as he sparred with his big brother - then Dean taking him down easily and pinning him in the grass - and Sam laughing out loud when Dean's iron grip suddenly turned into playful rib jabs.

If he hadn't left Sam behind, sick as a damned dog, his brother would have had little trouble taking out the monster who had him. Dean had studied his brother's captor, and while he was older and taller, he lacked the muscle and form that came from working out. The thing that had Sam was soft, hardened only by the gun he carried. And Dean knew that if Sam could just shake his illness, the odds would undoubtedly turn in his favor.

If only.

If only Sam wasn't so sick. If only Dean hadn't run off and left him to attend to Dad. If only Dad cared as much about Sam and Dean as he did about the hunt.

If only Dean hadn't failed the one person who truly depended on him - who admired and respected and looked up to him - Sam would be sitting beside him on the bench seat right now, calling him a jerk and asking him to please turn the music down.

Dean broke down then. So much unlike the hardened hunter he was trained to be, he broke down and sobbed like a baby for the boy who was the right side of his heart. If Sam didn't survive his ordeal, Dean knew he wouldn't survive it either. Call it codependent or selfish or cowardly, but if Sam left this planet, Dean sure as hell wasn't sticking around without him. Sam was the only thing that Dean loved more than life itself, and the thought of having to wake up and walk around in a world without a scruffy-haired, wide-eyed, pain-in-the-ass little brother was more than he could bear.

When Dean's phone rang again, it jolted him out of his revery. He cleared his throat and swiped at his eyes before answering.

"Yeah," He said gruffly.

"You heard from Sam?"

Dean paused. "No, nothing, Dad. You?"

"No, but I may have good news."

Dean perked up. "What?"

"Bobby put the word out on that Buick you described. He's got people on the lookout all the way from Sioux Falls to Flagstaff, and we might have just gotten a break. Here, I'll let Bobby tell it." and Dean heard the rustle of a phone being handed off.

"Dean, how you holdin' up, boy?"

Dean cleared his throat again, "I'm good, Bobby." he lied. "What do you hear?"

"Got a friend of a friend who owns a place in Kansas called Barb's Kitchen. She says she saw a man drag a boy off the side of the road and shove him into a tan Buick about three hours ago. The kid sounds like Sam - skinny, jeans too short, lots of dark hair. She said the guy wasn't being any too gentle and that the kid looked a little green around the gills. She hadn't noticed them pull up, but when the commotion started outside, it caught her eye."

Dean cursed, "Why didn't anybody intervene, Bobby?"

"Well, to hear the guy tell it, Barb was older than God about twenty years ago, and she was all alone in the restaurant when the deal went down. Woulda called the cops, but she'd gotten the heads up about Sam just about an hour before. So she called Jerry instead, and Jerry called me."

"So they never made it inside?"

"Apparently not. Sounds like Sam made a break for it and got dragged back. They hightailed it out of the lot afterward."

" _Well he tried to run away, and I can't have that now, can I?"_

"She get a plate number?"

"Nah, eyesight's not so good, I guess." Bobby said sadly.

Dean felt sick. "So where is this Barb's Kitchen place?"

"Just off I-35 in Olathe, Kansas. You can see the sign from the interstate. Where're you?"

Dean pulled the map into his lap and was suddenly excited. "I'm close, Bobby! I'm damn close - maybe half an hour! I had to pull over in Kansas City, couldn't stay awake!"

"Looks like you're gonna get to him first then, boy. We're just out of Des Moines, but we're coming fast. Don't do anything stupid, ya hear? You ain't gonna do Sam any good if you're dead."

"Got it, Bobby. I'll call you when I have Sam. Bye."

Dean was suddenly wide awake. He tossed the map to the side and peeled out of the lot, tires squealing. Sam was close; he could feel it.

"Hang on, Sammy. Just hold on for me, little brother. I'm almost there."


	12. Quality Time With Jake-the-Crazy-Train

Jake was losing it, and Sam was terrified.

Not twenty minutes after Jake had hung up on Dean, the motel lot lit up with police cars, lights blazing. Jake had taken one glance out the window at the three cruisers lined up outside the office and backed away, mumbling incoherently. He'd dug Sam's knife out from the grocery bag and paced back and forth, waving it erratically about. He alternately cupped his head with his hands and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

"I can't go to prison. I can't. I can't go. I can't." He turned to plead with Sam who was still tied down tight. "Why are they here, Mark? Why? What did you tell them?" He stopped to crouch in front of Sam then and shake him by both arms.

"You hear me? What did you say?"

Sam just shook his head, terrified. He couldn't speak anyway – not with the damned washcloth wedged solid between his teeth.

"You know I didn't mean it. You know that! I'm your brother, for God's sake! Why Sammy, why?"

The fact that Jake switched alternately between calling him Mark and calling him Sammy was the scariest damned thing Sam had ever witnessed, and he was sure the man was insane – crazier than a freaking soup sandwich – Dean would say. And that thought caused a rumble of hysterical laughter to start, only to be silenced by the obstruction in his throat.

If Sam had experienced doubts about the man's marbles before, he had all the proof he needed now, and he began sawing at his restraints in earnest again, twisting his wrists every way from Sunday, hoping to find that one spot where Jake hadn't tied him down tight.

But it was no use. Sam was screwed. He was thoroughly immobilized while a madman with a razor-sharp knife and a vendetta paced above him. Suddenly Sam wasn't so sure he would still be alive when Dean got there. Suddenly, he had the sinking feeling that this damned armchair was going to be his coffin, and the horrible, damp motel room with the ugly orange carpet and stained bedspreads the last things he ever saw.

Damn, this sucked.

And when the determined knock sounded on the motel room door, Jake shot into the bathroom and closed and locked the door soundlessly, leaving Sam alone to face whatever was coming across the threshold.

Through a tiny crack in the worn curtains, Sam could see the policeman standing on the stoop, and he tried everything he could to attract his attention, but he was generally helpless. After a few moments, the man simply turned and walked away. He trudged the seven or eight steps down to the next door and knocked in the same way. When the door opened, Sam heard voices – something about a HAZMAT leak nearby and a forced evacuation. Sam could see snippets of panicked guests as they fled past the window, carrying only the most essential of belongings.

He cursed behind the gag. And then he screamed in frustration. Help had been so close again, and again it had eluded him. As the cruisers pulled away, and Sam realized he was alone in the deserted motel with just Jake the Crazy Train and his trusted knife, Dicer, he cried at the unfairness of it all.

Jake emerged then, grinning from ear to ear, still clutching the knife in one fist. "Mark, they're gone! They weren't even here for us! What are the odds?" He happily moved to the bed closest to the door and flopped weightlessly down, arms akimbo. "Thank God. Thank God they left when they did." He grinned over at Sam. "I almost died there for a minute."

Sam stared blankly.

"What's the matter, man?" Jake sat up, looking at Sam closely. "You still feeling bad, buddy?" He moved over and placed the back of his hand across Sam's forehead. "Oh, damn." He looked suddenly forlorn, "You're burning up, Mark. Why didn't you say something?" He looked down at the washcloth then and giggled, "Oh, that's right. You couldn't." He pulled the offensive object out and tossed it on the floor.

"Well, it looks like we're all alone here for a while, so I'll go see if I can't scare up something to help. There was a little convenience store up in the office, and I'm sure I saw some aspirin packets at least. You wait here." He added, grinning down at Sam like he'd just said the funniest thing ever. "I'll be right back, little brother." And he swiped the washcloth up from the foul floor and stuffed it ruthlessly back in Sam's mouth before closing and locking the door behind him.


	13. Something I Should Tell You About Mark

Dean did the math. Barb had last seen Sam around 10 am. Subtracting the time it took to beat a kid into submission and then call his older brother with the happy news, Dean figured they had to be holed up within twenty to thirty minutes of the restaurant. And if Dean was a reckless kidnapper who was trying to keep a frantic kid contained, he'd take the exit for the first motel he saw.

And that brought him to the Olathe Inn. The lot was deserted …

with the exception of a single puke-colored Buick.

Dean cut the engine and motored soundlessly into the lot. He emerged from the Impala with a gun tucked into the back of his jeans and his dagger strapped to his ankle. He approached the office and noted the broken glass in the door. He pulled it gently open and stepped inside, instantly confronted by the man who had Sam. Dean's neck hairs did a little dance as he stood face-to-face with the man from the security camera.

The man's eyes were wild, his look slightly feral as he all but ran into Dean. But Dean turned on the instant Winchester charm to put the man at ease.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" Dean smiled. "Sure is quiet here. You got any vacancies?"

The man stared at Dean. "I-I don't work here."

"Oh. Oh okay. Gotcha. You seen the clerk anywhere?" Dean asked, desperately hoping he wasn't lying dead behind the counter.

"I think they evacuated everyone – something about a chemical spill or something."

"Oh," Dean nodded. "You decided to stay and tough it out?"

The man nodded, "Yeah, my little brother. He's real sick. Can't really move him right now, you know? I thought I saw some medicine here earlier, but I can't find it now." He suddenly looked desperate.

Dean's heart jumped into his throat. "Oh yeah? That's too bad. You know, I'm a physician's assistant. I could take a look at him?"

The man hesitated.

Dean shrugged and moved off toward the desk. "Sorry. Force of habit. I volunteer with a kid's shelter in town." He smiled back. "There's a bad strain of flu going around is all. I got the meds to treat it out in the car." He leaned over the desk to peer into the back room. "Hello!" He called. "Anyone here?"

"You have medicine?"

Dean nodded. "It's pretty awful stuff. Horribly infectious. High fever, vomiting, dizziness … the works. Once you got it, only Flusatia will make it stop." Dean hoped that sounded like a real drug.

"Flusatia?"

"Um hm. Well, look, I should take off, I guess, if I can't get a room." He headed for the door. "Good luck with your brother …?"

"Mark." The man said.

"Mark," Dean nodded and smiled. "Hope you get him some help. There's a hospital one exit over. Better go sooner than later, or you'll have it too." He headed for his car.

"I-I don't have any money to pay you." The man fumbled, following.

Dean smiled and shrugged, "Well, neither do the kids at the shelter. It's all provided by the state."

Silence.

"You want me to come take a look?"

"Can you just give me the meds?"

Dean shook his head sadly. "Afraid not. They have to be dispensed by a licensed professional." He reached into the car, popped the dash and pulled out the painkillers Sam took for migraines. In one swift move, he pulled the label off the bottle and shoved it down in the seat. He emerged from the car with the brown bottle in hand and showed it to Sam's abductor. "Got just enough left?"

The man suddenly smiled, and Dean's heart fell to his feet. It was the smile of someone who was truly mad. "Okay," the man agreed amiably. "There's something I should probably tell you about Mark though." He offered, as the two walked back toward the room.

"What's that?"

"He's a bad kid a lot of the time. I have to do things to keep him in check, you know?"

Dean swallowed down a sudden twinge of fear. "What kind of things?"

"Well," Jake said, unlocking the door and throwing it wide. "See for yourself."


	14. You Can Call Me Randy

"Hey, Mark." Jake called, flipping on the lights. "I brought you some help."

Sam raised his head and squinted at the sudden brightness in the room and found himself looking into the startled eyes of one genuine big brother. He caught himself just in time to avoid giving Dean away.

Dean took one look at Sam and smothered the curse on his lips. He was tied to a damned chair with rope and had a dirty washcloth shoved in his mouth for good measure. His face was still swollen and discolored from where the bastard had punched him, and he was still flushed with fever. Dean wanted to cry. Then he wanted to kill. But when he turned round to launch himself at the monster who'd hurt his baby brother, he found himself facing down the wrong end of a gun.

"I guess you know too much to leave now." Jake said, sadly. "I'm sorry about that. But I can't have you leaving here and telling tales about how I like to tie up my little brother."

Dean glanced at Sam to see how he fared with this bastard calling him his brother, and he was secretly delighted to see that Sam was seething.

Dean fought to remain calm. "Well, the first thing we have to do is get him out of the chair and onto the bed. The kid needs to be comfortable or he'll choke on the medicine." Dean explained – convincingly, he hoped. "Can I untie him?"

Jake seemed a little thrown by Dean's lack of horror at the situation, but Dean tried to set him at ease. "Look, I've worked the inner city shelters for a year now. There's nothing I haven't seen, okay? You gotta tie him up to keep him away from the gangs and the drugs? More power to you." He lied.

Jake seemed to like that. He nodded and smiled slightly. "Yeah. That's it exactly." He agreed and nodded. "Yeah, go ahead and untie him. No gangs way out here."

Dean knelt down in front of Sam and gazed gently into his eyes. He smiled his Sammy smile – the one reserved strictly for 12-year-old brothers. And then he ended it with the patented Dean Winchester wink. "My name's Randall." He said loudly. "I'm a physician's assistant at the local clinic. But you," he directed his next words to Sam. "You can call me Randy." He gently removed the washcloth from his brother's mouth and massaged his jaws on both sides. Sam's eyes teared instantly. "How long has the gag been in?" He asked.

Jake had moved comfortably to the bed, but he still held the gun trained on Dean. "I don't know. Coupla hours."

Dean's eyed closed for a moment in fury. "He needs water, then." He gruffly informed the man he completely intended to kill. When Jake made no move to get up, Dean moved to the sink and unwrapped one of the motel cups that the brothers knew so well. He quickly filled it and brought it to his brother's mouth. Sam gulped thirstily like he hadn't had a drink in days. Regretfully, Dean had to pull the cup away gently.

"Hold on, S-Mark." He said softly. "Not too much too soon, okay?" When Sam nodded, Dean moved to stand behind him and begin untying the knots that held him.

"You tie a good, tight knot." Dean complimented Jake. "Where'd you learn that?"

Jake blinked. He wasn't used to compliments. "Uh, I don't know. Sailing, I guess. I did a summer helping out on a fishing boat a few years back."

Dean nodded. "Well, these are pretty impressive." He finally undid the final knot and moved in front of Sam to help him to his feet.

"I got you, Mark. Okay? Just lean on me, and I'll help you over to the bed."

Sam stood up and instantly felt the pins and needles that accompanied hands and feet that had gone to sleep. The needle pricks made his hands useless and his feet feel like lead. He leaned heavily into Dean to make the few steps over to the bed.

"Wait up, there." Dean suddenly stopped him as he leaned down and yanked the stained bedspread off the bed and pulled back the thermal blanket and sheet. On the way back up, he unobtrusively raised the back of Sam's shirt to peek at the damage he expected to find there. He placed Sam gently on the bed then, removed his shoes and jacket, and then pushed him gently back. Sam struggled a little, and Dean knew it was because he was expecting them both to need to flee at any instant. But Dean had a plan, and mostly it involved making his little brother as comfortable as possible ASAP. He fully intended to medicate Sam and put him to bed while he dealt with the monster who held him hostage. He shook his head ever so slightly at his brother's resistance, and that was all it took for Sam to acquiesce. He lay back on the bed, and Dean placed the cup of water in his hand.

"I need my first aid kit from the car." Dean addressed Jake.

"What for? I thought all he needed was the flu stuff?"

"Has a thermometer and bandages for his wrists. Antibiotics too. These could get infected. I wasn't expecting rope burns." Dean pointed to Sam's wrists where he'd rubbed them raw with the ropes. The rope burns made Dean furious all over again; they testified to just how badly Sam had tried to work his way loose from the monster who held him. Sam had struggled so hard he had gashes that dripped blood from both wrists.

Jake considered the request. "How do I know you won't try anything?"

Dean shrugged, "What's to try? Nobody here but us, right?"

Jake squinted. "You got a phone?"

Dean shook his head. "Left it back at the clinic, charging. I was planning to go straight back, but then I remembered Scott was on duty tonight. They won't need me till tomorrow at the earliest.

Jake faltered, and suddenly Dean was angry. "Listen, you want me to help your brother, then let me help him. I have everything he needs out in the car. If you want to kill me afterwards, so be it."

Jake blinked.

"Well?" Dean demanded.

"Yeah, okay. I guess." Jake relented. "But I'm watching every move you make. You do anything screwy, and I'll blow your head off your shoulders."

Dean hated to step outside the room and leave Sam even for an instant, but he needed the bandages and the thermometer, and he was hoping to send John a message as well. He turned and looked at Sam and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be right back with everything you need, okay? I promise."

Sam smiled back and nodded to let Dean know he'd be fine for the five minutes it would take to retrieve the kit.

When Dean stepped outside, he exhaled and fought to get a handle on his anger. He couldn't afford to rush the guy with Sammy in the room. The guy was too much of an unknown – too loose of a cannon. If he'd been a ghoul or a ghost or a wendigo, Dean would have felt confident in his course of action.

But people, man. People were crazy.

So he hurried to the Impala and popped the trunk. Reaching over deep into the trunk, he fished his phone out of his bag and sent a quick text: "Olathe Inn. Help." Then he hid the phone deep under a pile of clothes and grabbed the first aid kit. The whole task took less than two minutes to complete and then he was back knocking on the door. He had a brief moment of panic when he thought Jake wasn't going to let him back in, but then the door opened and the older boy stepped aside to let Dean enter.

"That was quick." He nodded.

"Well, you learn that in the medical trade." Dean agreed. He moved quickly over to Sam and popped the thermometer into his mouth. And although he knew Sam knew the drill, he kept up a running commentary to make it look authentic. "So keep that under your tongue for a few minutes, Mark. Okay? I have an idea your fever's pretty high." And while they waited, he laid out the antibiotic ointment and bandages.

"You got any clean washcloths in there?" Dean gestured to the bathroom.

"Yeah," Jake answered. "We haven't had a chance to use any yet."

Except for the filthy one you stuffed in Sam's mouth, Dean thought angrily.

"I need all you got. Wet please. Warm water. And a bowl or a basin. Gotta bathe these wounds."

When Jake moved to the bathroom to comply, Sam spoke up around the thermometer. "He never whipped me, Dean." He whispered desperately. "I tried to yell when he called you, but I couldn't. All he did was hit me once and tie me up a couple of times. Honest."

Dean's eyes closed in relief, "Thank God, Sammy. That phone call nearly killed me."

Sam's eyes welled up. "I'm sorry, Dean. I wanted to die too when I realized what he was going to say."

Jake returned to the room, eyeing the pair.

"That should do it, Mark." Dean said, pulling the thermometer out and studying it. "Hmmm."

"Is it … is it high?" Sam asked.

"104.2. You are one sick kid."

"Oh." Sam said miserably.

Dean smiled through the sudden fear that welled up. That was way too high. Sam was heading into convulsion territory, and they both knew it.

"Change of plan." Dean suddenly stood up.

"What?" Jake stepped back, raising the gun.

"We have to get him into the tub. His fever is dangerously high."


	15. It Was Only for an Hour

"No."

"What?" Dean turned to face Jake, disbelievingly. "What do you mean, no? Help me get him in the tub."

"No." Jake's voice shook. "No tub. Not again."

Dean glanced down at Sam and saw that he was just as confused by Jake's bizarre reaction.

"Why not?" Dean stood up.

"Just … no. He's not going in the tub. Not ever again. That's where he was …" Jake trailed off.

"Was what?" Dean growled, he was tired of this game. Sam needed relief, and he needed it yesterday.

Jake turned haunted eyes on Dean. "That's where he was when he … when he died. But he's back now, and I'm not making that mistake again, you hear me? No tub."

Dean's heart sank. This guy's crazy ran more than skin deep. He glanced at Sam who blinked wearily back up at him. "It's okay," Sam said, "the washcloths … and … and some medicine." He coughed then - a vicious round of hacking that sounded like it had enough force to crack his ribs in two.

"Easy," Dean knelt back down beside his brother and gently pulled him forward. He sat rubbing his back and thinking. "This is bullshit!" He blurted out, pissed.

Jake's eyes narrowed, studying the extreme care that Randy was suddenly showing his little brother. "Careful." He cautioned, fidgeting with the gun. "This is my show. Not yours. Give him the flu stuff and he'll be fine."

"Has he eaten lately?" Dean asked.

Jake shrugged.

"Have you?" Dean prodded Sam.

"Day … day before yesterday."

"Son of …" Dean whispered under his breath, then choked off when he saw Jake watching him … oddly.

"He can't take meds on an empty stomach." Dean growled. "You got anything to eat over there?" He gestured to the table.

Jake glanced around, "Some peanut butter. Bread. That's it."

Dean knew how sick Sam was already of peanut butter. Should he risk it?

"H-how about soup? You got any soup in that bag?"

Jake rummaged inside and came up with the two remaining soup packets. He held them up for Dean's inspection, studying him carefully.

"You psychic or something there, Randy?" He squinted.

Dean tried not to hyperventilate. "No," he reasoned. "Just hopeful. Soup is best when you're sick. Everybody knows that."

Dean stood up and snagged the soup pouches out of Jake's hand, but he didn't like the way the man was suddenly watching him. It made him feel like a bug under a microscope. He moved to the coffeepot and began filling it. "So, what's your name, anyway?" He asked Jake, hoping to turn the subject away from his own apparently uncanny ability to sniff out powered soup.

Jake smiled then, and Dean saw not an ounce of sanity left. "I told you my name the first time we talked, Dean." He said softly. "You just had … other things on your mind at the time, I guess. It's Jake."

"Who's Dean, your other dead brother?" Dean asked, no longer caring about tiptoeing around this psycho.

"That's funny. Real funny." Jake smiled. "But I know who you are, and I know why you're here." He stood up and raised the gun, pointing it at Sam. "He's my brother, not yours. Right, Mark?" He slowly advanced to the boy on the bed.

Dean dropped the soup and stepped forward, putting himself between Sam and the barrel of the .45. "You gonna shoot your own brother, Jake? Isn't that why you wouldn't let me put him in the tub in the first place? So you could keep him safe?"

Jake nodded. "I will shoot him. You're here to take him from me anyway. So if I can't have him. You can't have him either." He cocked the gun and pointed it at Dean's chest.

"Move." Jake demanded.

Dean shook his head. "You're not shooting anyone, you crazy son-of-a-bitch, least of all MY little brother." and he shoved the man back and pushed his arm up as the gun discharged. Dean reached around back for his own gun and quickly brought it out in front, but Jake suddenly kicked out, catching Dean in the knee, and he went down hard, pain rocketing through his leg. In an instant, Jake was on top of the younger boy, holding him down with what seemed like superhuman strength.

"He's MINE!" Jake chanted repeatedly as he bashed Dean in the head with the barrel of the .45. "You hear me? Mine. You aren't taking him away again. I'll kill you first." He snarled. "I'll kill him first, too."

And when a furious and feverish Sammy suddenly landed on Jake's back and clawed at his eyes, it was nothing to rear back and smash the slight form into the wall behind him. Sam dislodged with a painful sound that made it hard for Dean to catch his breath. He tried to get a look at his brother through the blood dripping in his eyes, and he saw Jake leaning over the boy, slowly bringing the barrel into position.

Dean lunged.

The gun fired.

And the door splintered open all at the same time.

In an instant, John Winchester swept the scene, noting the positions of both his sons. And then he fired, catching Jake square in the back and propelling his body across Sam's still form.

Sam was hurt. His chest burned like fire and he couldn't find the strength to move as Jake lay on top of him, staring steadily into his face.

"I'm … sorry … Mark." Jake gasped "Sorry, I left you … alone with … with Dad. I knew he … was sad. It was only … an hour. I didn't know he … I didn't know. Mark, it was only for an hour."


	16. Don't Die on Me, Sammy

Blood.

Damn, there was so much blood. Sam's shirt and his neck and the floor beneath him was covered in it, and Dean could hardly tell where the horrible orange carpet ended and his little brother began. He pushed the older boy off Sam with one swift shove and fell next to the 12-year old who held Dean's heart in blood-soaked hands.

"Sammy!" He breathed desperately, gathering the boy up his arms and cradling him - his chest to Sam's back like Sam was still four years old instead of the gangly, rangy pre-teen he'd become. "Sammy, I got you, okay? You gotta stay with me, Sam. S-stay with me, please Sammy!" Dean choked back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him as a stray tear escaped and rolled down pale cheeks. Crying in front of Dad was taboo in the Winchester household, but at the moment, Dean didn't give a rat's ass.

"Let me see how bad it is, little brother, okay?" he pleaded, wrapping his arms around from behind and unbuttoning his brother's shirt with trembling fingers that didn't seem to remember how to cooperate. He shook his brother gently. Sam! Sam! Talk to me! Please!" He pleaded.

"H-hurts." Sam choked.

"I know. I know it hurts, Sammy. It's going to be okay though, you hear me? We're gonna get you fixed up and feeling better in no time."Dean reassured. "Where does it hurt, Sam?"

"Sh-chest. Shot me … in the ch-ess …" Sam trailed off.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice shook with sudden fear. "Sammy! Don't you die on me, you hear! Don't you dare die!"

Dad was suddenly there, crouched in front of Dean as he held on to his brother for dear life. "Let me see, son." He said gently, peeling Dean's blood-soaked and shaking hands away from Sam's shirtfront. He carefully pulled Sam's button-down open and glanced at the wound Jake had inflicted with the .45 at too close range. He sighed, relieved, and looked up into Dean's terrified eyes. "Not a chest shot, son." He said, and snapped his fingers in front of Dean's face when he just stared blankly. "You hear me? It's not his chest. It grazed his shoulder. Just his shoulder, Dean. His aim was off. You knocked it wide, Dean."

Dean just stared at his father.

"Dean!"

"What?"

"I said he's going to be fine. It's just a shoulder wound." Then to Sam, "Hey Sammy, can you hear me pal? Sam? Can you open your eyes, son?"

Sam complied, eyelids at half-mast.

"I know you feel awful, boy, but you're going to be okay, you hear me? It's not a chest wound, Sam."

"Dad …?"

John smiled, a tear of his own rolling silently downward at the sound of his youngest's voice. "Yeah buddy. I'm here. I'm here, and Dean's here and it's going to be fine. You hear me?"

"Ambulance is on the way." Bobby piped up from the door where he and Caleb stood, silently watching the Winchesters as they found one another once again.

"Thanks, Bobby." John replied, taking off his own shirt and folding it haphazardly. "Thank you." He handed the shirt to Dean. "Put some pressure on that." he instructed the older boy who looked every bit like he was going into shock.

"Dean!"

"What?" Dean's eyes finally focused on the improvised bandage his father pushed into his hands. "That needs pressure. Snap out of it! Sam needs you, Dean. You hear me?"

Dean looked at his father and then down at Sam and then at the foreign object in his hands. He pressed the shirt against Sam's shoulder. "Yeah. Okay. I got it." He took a deep breath. "I'm good. I got it." Then to Sam, "You hear me? I got you, Sammy. I got you."

Sam stared at his father sadly through half-closed eyes. "Dad ..."

John leaned in close, "What Sam?"

"I-I'm s-sorry. All m-my fault." He breathed, dejectedly.

"Sam, no …" Dean started, but John stopped him."

"Sammy, listen to me, okay?" John reassured, "Nothing about this is your fault. Do you hear me? There's nothing you could have done to prevent this. Nothing. If you're going to worry about something, you worry about getting well, okay?"

Sam blinked in obedience. "D-dad?"

"What, son?"

"D-don't bl-blame Dean, please? N-not his fault."

"Sammy …" Dean's heart broke all over again.

"It's nobody's fault, Sam. I know. I'm not blaming Dean. I think your brother probably saved your life."

"Dean … always … th-there …" Sam tried to say, but his eyes went closed before he could finish his thought.

John and Dean exchanged frightened looks for a moment, and then John was all hunter once again.

"He'll be fine, Dean." he said and stepped back as the paramedics poured into the room.


	17. Don't Feel Anything, Sam

Sam was crying in his sleep again, and the small, sad sounds made Dean wish he had Jake back in the room with him so he could watch the son of a bitch die over again. Sam twisted on the mattress as far as his damaged body would allow, and, like clockwork, he uttered his brother's name repeatedly as his dreams picked up momentum and he relived those terrifying hours trapped in a madman's nightmare.

Dean gently shifted across the bed to touch his brother's arm and shake him lightly out of his terror.

"Sam." He whispered softly. "Sammy, wake up. It's just a dream."

But rousing his brother from the grim visions that his subconscious cooked up nightly was never that easy. Inside his mind, Sam remained trapped in that motel room, tied to that chair, and forced to watch his brother die at the hands of the asshole who'd grabbed him. At least, that's what it sounded like to Dean. Once awake, Sam would stare at his brother with haunted eyes and claim that he didn't remember what he dreamed.

"Dean, Oh God. Please, Dean. Please don't die." Sam sobbed quietly, his hands forming fists in the sheets.

"Shhh … Sammy. I'm right here. It's okay. It's just a bad dream."

"Don't! Please d-don't kill ..." Sam's voice hitched.

"Sam! Sam, wake up!" Dean shook him a bit more forcefully, and the vibration was apparently enough to jolt Sam's sore body enough to break him free from the nightmare world that held him. He lay gasping up at Dean, tears sliding silently out the corners of both eyes and trailing down along each ear.

"Breathe, Sam." Dean instructed gently. "I got you. Just breathe through it. You're okay now."

But Sam lay frozen, immobilized by fear, just like he had every other time Dean had woken him like this. But eventually, reason would return to his eyes, and he'd glance around the familiar room and remember once again that he was safe at Bobby's house and not trapped by the ropes and gags that once bound him.

Dean stared gently down at his baby brother and smiled that gentle Dean smile and pushed a lock of sweaty hair away from Sam's left eye. "You hear me? I got you, Sammy. I got you now, and no one is ever going to take you away from me again, okay?"

"Wha ...? Why? Dean." Sam was coming back into himself. "Wha … what?" He was always nearly incoherent after one of these night terrors, and Dean knew to patiently wait until his little brother was able to voice a complete thought. Suddenly Sam dragged in a ragged breath like he'd been denying himself oxygen, and it was painful to hear.

"Dean!"

"I'm right here, little brother."

"Dean!"

"Mmm?"

"Can't … can't br-breathe!" Suddenly Sam pushed Dean away with enough force to send him sprawling onto the floor. He sprinted off the bed and nearly doubled over at the pain the desperate act caused him. He was openly crying, terrified - trying desperately to catch even a single breath that seemed to be denied him.

But Dean was beside him in a heartbeat and sitting him back down on the bed and pulling him to his chest as much as Sam's injuries would allow. He rubbed gentle circles along Sam's spine.

"Listen to me, Sam." He crooned softly. "You can breathe. It's just a panic attack, okay? Just breathe like me." He pulled Sam's hand to his chest and parked it there, holding it in place. He wrapped the other around the back of Sam's neck. "Feel me, Sam. See? Just like me. In and out. Just like that. Come on, you can do this, I know you can. In and out, see? Just like me."

Slowly, Sam became calm enough under Dean's gently issued orders that he was able to draw a single shallow breath. And from there, survival became easier.

"Good." Dean crooned, holding his brother. "Just breathe, Sammy. In and out. You got this."

Ever so slowly, Sam's breaths returned to normal and the tension gently eased out of him. When Dean felt his weary body relax against him, he knew the worst was over.

"Sammy, you okay?" he asked, rocking his brother gently.

He felt Sam nod against his chest.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Silence.

"Sam?"

"I-I was back there."

Dean held his breath. Typically, this was the part where Sam clammed up and claimed he had no memory of his dreams.

"I was there. Y-you were there too. Only … only …"

"Shhh … it's okay Sam."

"Only, it wasn't his brother that had died."

Suddenly Dean thought he knew what was coming.

"It-It was mine." Sam said, and lost it.

Dean had never wanted to kill someone a second time so badly in his life.

"Shhh ... Shhh ... Sam, it was just a bad dream. It was just a dream." he crooned as Sam sobbed openly in his arms.

They sat like that for minutes. Dean offering comfort and Sam trying to absorb what he could. Eventually, Sam calmed down and swiped at his eyes and grimaced.

"What?"

"Think I pulled something." Sam said forlornly, placing his hand gingerly on his chest.

"Shit. Really?" Dean worried. He gently pushed Sam back on the bed and reached for the bedside lamp. "Here. Let me look."

Sam sucked in a breath when Dean lifted his tee shirt and saw the blood where bandages had been dislodged. "Yep." Dean agreed, smiling at Sam. "We're gonna be busy." Then he sobered, "We shouldn't have smuggled you out of that hospital so soon. I shouldn't have listened to Dad. Sam, I'm sorry. I don't think you were ready to come home."

"No, two weeks in lockdown was plenty." Sam assured him, sitting back on the edge of the bed. "I'm glad you got me out when you did. I'll be fine. I don't mean to be a baby about everything, Dean. I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head. "Don't you dare, Sam. Don't you even start apologizing for something you had no control over, you hear me?"

Silence.

"Sam?"

"You know, he spoke to me."

"What? Who?"

"J-Jake." Sam hadn't called the man by name since, well, ever.

Dean stared. "When?"

"When he was on top of me. When … when he was dying."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he pulled Sam close. If that asshole had gotten in a final blow …

"He said he was sorry." Sam looked up at Dean, tears in his eyes. "He thought I was his brother, and he s-said he was sorry for leaving me alone with Dad." Sam looked like he was about to heave. "He said that he knew Dad was sad and that he never should have left me with him."

Dean was suddenly horrified. "Sam?"

"I think his father must have drowned Mark in the bathtub."

Dean swallowed down the bile that suddenly rose in his throat and looked away. "That's … that's horrible." He breathed.

Dean felt his brother shudder.

"I-I can't imagine what that …" Sam trailed off.

"Sam. Don't." Dean warned. He knew exactly what image Sam was torturing himself with now because Dean was envisioning the same damned thing.

"I want to hate him. Dean, I do. I just … I feel …."

Dean squeezed his brother tightly. "What, Sam?"

"I feel so bad for him. I mean, he lost his brother like that. And his dad …"

"No." Dean said firmly.

"What?"

Dean shifted until he was crouched on the floor in front of his brother and looking him in the eye. "No. You don't do that. You don't feel … anything … for that monster, okay? Least of all sympathy."

"But …"

"No, Sam. You listen to me, okay? Everyone has baggage. And what happened to Jake and his kid brother was horrible, but it doesn't excuse what that bastard did to you. What he did to us. You hear me?"

Sam sat silent.

"I mean it, Sam. I mean, he didn't just steal you away to play house and pretend he had his beloved brother back. If that was the case, he would have treated you good. Did he?"

Silence.

"Sam? Did he? Did he treat you good?"

Sam shook his head.

"No. He didn't. He fucking punched you and threatened you with a gun and tied you up and stuck a filthy rag in your mouth and left you that way. He starved you and didn't let you drink and manhandled you when you tried to get away. He threatened you and made you think he was going to do worse things …" Dean's voice broke then. "He-he took you away from me, Sammy. He took you away, and he told me he'd h-hurt you so badly, and …"

Sam slipped silently off the edge of the bed then and pooled his slight body into his brother's arms.

 _ **Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, favorite or follow this story. Your support and kind words mean more than you know._


	18. You Should Have Called

Dean awoke to the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the battered motel room door. In a heartbeat, both boys waited, wide awake and armed, and Dean hit the floor running to place himself between whatever was coming through the door and Sam's slight figure crouched on the other bed.

But when the door opened, it was only Dad standing there, looking like death not warmed over and clutching his gun in his hand. Silent greetings ensued and everyone dropped their weapons and their guards simultaneously.

"Dad?" Sam was the first to speak. "You okay? Where've you been?"

John handed his weapon off to Dean with a nod to his oldest and an odd smile in Sam's direction. "I'm fine. Sam." He said, falling into one of the chairs that sat at the rickety table and pulling off a boot. "Just took a little longer than I thought, is all. But it's … it's done. God, it's done."

Dean tried hard not to be pissed and failed miserably. "Something happen to your phone along the way?" He barked, fear making him more courageous than normal.

"Excuse me?" John stopped what he was doing to glare up at Dean.

Dean glared straight back. "You should have called. We thought you were dead. Sam's still trying to get better. He didn't need that worry on top of everything else."

"Dean …" Sam warned softly.

"Stand down, Dean." John warned. "I'm in no mood for your mouth right now."

"No? Well that's too bad." Dean went on, unheeding both warnings and stepping off the ledge right into the abyss, "Cause I'm not in the mood for more of your selfish excuses, Dad."

John rose, boot in hand, and glowered down at the 20-year-old man who stood defensive before him. "I'm warning you, son." He measured every word. "Things happened on this hunt that you don't want to dredge up, you hear me?"

Dean squinted, "What kinds of things?"

John stared hard at his older boy and suddenly seemed to relent. He sighed tiredly. "Witches. Dean. Witches cast spells. And sometimes those spells make you do … things you wish you hadn't."

"You mean like forgetting to call home?" Sam offered, ever the peacemaker.

But Dean wasn't willing to forgive just yet. He thought of Sam and of everything they'd been through to get him back and then Dad just ditching them at Bobby's and then leaving again almost immediately. He thought of Sam crying himself awake every night and of all the bandaging and re-bandaging he'd had to endure because of it. He remembered Sam's panic attacks and his night terrors and the almost physical feel of his dread when Dad had returned suddenly to drag them both back out on the road before Sam was even healed properly.

And suddenly, standing down was the last thing on his mind.

"That's bullshit, and you know it." He blurted.

"What did you say to me?" John advanced threateningly.

"Did I stutter?" Dean shot back.

"I'm warning you Dean. Just back off."John's eyes flashed eerily. "I've managed to shake off the worst of what that witch did to me, but until I get to Bobby's and perform the ritual, I can't be responsible …" his voice trailed off as he suddenly looked … old.

"Do you know the kind of shit Sam's been through?" Dean demanded. "Do you?" Were you here for the panic attacks and the night terrors and the ripped stitches? Were you here when he cried himself to sleep worrying about you only to cry himself awake an hour later with the memories of what that asshole did to him? Were you, Dad? Because I was! And you know what? I don't think a damned phone call is too much to ask."

In one swift move, John strode forward and wrapped his fists in his son's t-shirt. He pulled him close til they were nose-to-nose. "Were you there when that bitch made me kill Caleb? Hunh, Dean? Were you? Were you there when I wrapped my fingers around his neck and choked the last breath from my best friend's body? Were you there for that?"

"Dad …" Sam breathed in horror.

Dean's eyes welled up as he stood staring into his father's devastated eyes. "Dad … no!"

John stepped back and dropped his hands to his side. "I-I should go, Dean. I'm … not safe to be around. I shouldn't have come here."

"Dad, wait!" Dean stepped forward, anger forgotten.

John's cell phone rang. He glanced at the number then apologetically at Dean, flipping it open. "Yeah Bobby."

Dean moved to sit next to his brother on the bed as the two exchanged looks of horror. They listened to John's end of the conversation.

"Yeah. I'm here now."

"They're fine. They're big boys, Bobby."

"No."

"Because I was on a damned hunt! I had more important things on my mind than picking up a damned phone!"

"The hell you say!"

Then a prolonged silence as Bobby apparently let loose on the other end. Sam and Dean sat silently watching as John slowly became more and more furious, and Dean became more and more tense.

"You listen to me, old man," John growled. "These are my boys. You hear me? Not yours. Mine! I'll do what I damn well please."

"The hell you will!"

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we?"

John flipped his phone shut and pitched it against the wall with such force it shattered. He stood with his back to Sam and Dean, breathing heavily, and Dean was suddenly terrified.

"Dad …" Sam started, but Dean bumped his knee, shaking his head in warning.

After an eternity, John turned slowly back around and his gaze fell on the two frightened boys sitting shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the bed, and what Dean saw there made him grab hold of Sam and push him suddenly, desperately toward the door.

"Sam! Run!" Dean shouted, moving to place himself between his father and brother.

But John was faster. In one swift move he clotheslined Sam and took him down with an agonizing thud.

And it was his youngest son's howl of pain that ignited the curse within him once more. John reached down with a snarl and yanked Sam to his feet by one arm. He held him there in an iron grip as he glared at his oldest.

"What's the matter boy?" He taunted Dean. "Suddenly got no more shit to toss at the old man? You sure filled Bobby's ears full of it, didn't you?"

Dean looked desperately from his Dad's empty eyes to his brother's agonized face as he struggled to breathe through old injuries reignited. "Dad. Please." Dean begged. "Sammy's hurting."

John glanced down at Sam and shook him roughly like a dog worrying an old bone, and a single tear dislodged and rolled down Sam's face as he locked gazes with Dean. "Are you, Sam? Are you hurting?"

"Dad, please." Sam's voice hitched.

"Please what, Sam? Please shut your brother up? Please make him stop running his mouth and pissing off the old man? Is that what you meant to ask, Sammy?"

"Dad!" Dean barked. "Stop it!"

John shot Dean a look of pure disgust and suddenly shoved Sam at him hard. Dean wasn't expecting the move, and floundered forward to try and catch his brother before he hit the floor a second time, but he was just a second too late. Sam went down on one knee and caught the wooden arm of the chair against his chest. Hard.

Suddenly there was blood. There was blood, and it poured out of Sam like air escaping a punctured tire. Dean stood horrified as Sam stumbled to his feet and into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door quick.

Dean was only one heartbeat behind him, pounding. "Sammy! Sammy, let me in, please!" But when the lock pinged open, it was John who pushed past Dean and forced his way into the small motel bath instead. He shoved Dean aside with the force of three men, propelling him far across the carpet, and by the time Dean made it back to try and force the door, it was bolted once again.

"Sam!"

Sam's voice, panicked, "Dad! Don't!"

The sound of water filling the chipped enamel tub.

Then his father's voice, cruel and taunting, right up against the door, "You think I don't know how to bring you into line Dean?" He spoke through the wood. "Think again. There's only one thing you really care about, and it ain't the old man and it ain't the damned hunt, is it? Take away that one thing, and all that swagger and shit will be gone, won't it?"

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod … the sound of struggling and Dad telling Sammy to suck it up and take it like a man because he was so damned tired of all of Dean's crap and this was the only way it was ever going to end. And always the water running in the background behind Sam's pleading attempts to bring their father back into himself. And Dean pounding and kicking at the door and begging and praying and pleading with anyone or anything listening to give him the strength, just give him the fucking strength, to break down this fucking door before Dad did the unthinkable. And then the sounds of Sam screaming in earnest like he was in fear for his life and what sounded like something heavy hitting the floor, dragging or being pulled toward the tub which couldn't still be filling. No way it could still be filling. And Dean sinking to his knees outside the damned bathroom door which must be made of iron and pressing his ear to the panels because suddenly there was nothing but silence.

"Dean!"

"Dean! Wake up!" Sam's voice.

And then familiar walls and a ceiling that evoked warm memories and Sammy beside him on the bed, shaking him urgently and looking desperate.

As quickly as it began, the dream ended, but the memory … God, the memory remained. And Dean pushed Sam away and rocketed to his feet and dove into the bathroom, heaving. When he was done, he stood, shaking, at the sink, staring at his own wrecked reflection and trying to blink back lingering tears of terror.

"Dean?" Sam suddenly standing behind him in the glass, looking scared, and reaching out a tentative hand and placing it comfortingly on Dean's shoulder. "You okay?"

And then Dean turning round and pulling his little brother - his living, breathing, bright eyed, pain-in-the-ass little brother - close into a tight embrace and burying watery eyes in the younger boy's shoulder.

"Yeah," His voice gruff and broken, "Yeah, Sammy. I'm good."


	19. Who the Fuck is Dean Winchester?

The big man sat down behind the glass, curious at what news his visitor carried. It had been years since he'd had a visitor after all, so it must be something big. He looked at his uncle and saw the damage time and trial had wrought, and he wondered briefly who had died. He picked up the phone.

"Jimbo." He greeted his visitor.

"Hiya Marcus. It's … it's good to see you."

Marcus snorted, "Well, if you say so. I'm thinking you're alone in that, but I guess I could be wrong."

Silence.

"So you got news, I take it?"

The man swallowed hard and nodded. "Jake." He said.

"Jake? Jake hasn't been around in a good six years." Marcus replied.

"Marcus … "

"What?"

"Jake's dead."

Marcus thought about that for a moment, "You don't say? How?"

"Murdered. Probably in his motel room. Probably shot in the back.

Marcus rocked back in his seat. "In the back, you say?" he nodded.

"And that wasn't all."

"What else?"

"They torched his body. Dragged him into a nearby field and doused him in accelerant and burned him to a crisp."

Even as jaded a man as Marcus was, the news rocked him. "They know who?"

The man nodded. He unfolded a paper flyer containing a mug shot, smoothed it out and pressed it up against the glass.

Marcus studied the boy in the photo. He couldn't have been more than 18. His eye fell on the name.

"Dean Winchester? Who the fuck is Dean Winchester?"

Security camera has images of this kid approaching Jake in the motel office. He appears to offer him drugs and they leave together, headed back to Jake's room. Next day, Jake's dead. Shot in the back. Room tore all to hell."

"What kind of a fucking coward shoots someone in the back anyway?"

His visitor shook his head. "List is pretty long on this Winchester kid. Weird, kinky stuff - grave desecration, desecration of mortal remains, and now murder - shit like that. Seems like every time they catch up with him, he slips away somehow. Jake was just in the wrong place, wrong time, they think."

Marcus leaned forward. "Well ain't that some shit."

"The family, well. we thought you should know. Jake was buried yesterday. Well, what was left of him."

"Well." Marcus said, thinking.

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, Marcus. Just don't. You're up for parole in another year."

Marcus nodded. "Gives me plenty of time to plan then, doesn't it?"

"Marcus."

"Jimbo," Marcus leaned forward. "What would you say is fitting retribution for shooting someone in the back and then burning them up?" He grinned then - a wide, toothy, disturbing smile that made nightmares pale by comparison. "I can think of a few things. And I think this Dean Winchester is going to get the chance to test them out real soon. Real soon."


	20. A Summer to Remember

Dean felt good. It was summertime in the nation, and their latest hunt had actually landed them beachside in South Carolina. Bobby had lined them up a cozy beachfront cottage, and it was here that Sam was able to finally heal from the events of more than a year ago. They'd been in residence for a solid two months, and there was still no end in sight. Dad had relented and left Dean in charge of both boys while he traveled the area in search of worthy endeavors, which in John Winchesterspeak meant monsters.

But for the time being, Sam and Dean were left out of the fray and allowed to actually relax for a change. They'd spent the entire summer ogling girls on the beach, throwing impromptu private parties at the cottage for the ones deemed worthy, and otherwise just being boys. There had been beer and pizza and clam bakes and surfing. And secretly, Sam wished it would never end. Just having this time together with his big brother to heal and bond and do whatever it was that brothers did was the best form of therapy. Even Dean tried not to think too far ahead at the winter and worse that awaited them once Dad decided they'd rested enough.

But for today, Dean felt good. It was a rainy, unseasonably chilly day that left the beach deserted except for two Winchesters and a football. And it was the normal, everyday pleasures of life like this that had eliminated the nightmares for both boys. They both slept through the night now, waking rested and happy in the mornings.

Sam's physical injuries had healed as well, and he was back to 100 percent both physically and emotionally, and Dean was determined he would stay that way.

It was truly a summer to remember for the two brothers. And as they ran along the beach in the wind and the light rain, laughing and slipping and falling and tackling one another, they were unaware of the eyes that watched them from an old beater parked up on the cliff. The man who watched the Winchesters used a high-powered telescope on a tripod, and he made meticulous notes recording the times when the boys left and when they returned and when they entertained guests. He knew what time they arose in the mornings and what time they went to sleep at night. He knew the older boy - Dean - was always up first. He'd come out onto the deck in sweats and bare feet and glance around like he was canvassing the area. Then he'd stretch and pad back inside to make coffee. The younger brother, whose name he didn't know, was fond of reading and messing around on a laptop that he carried out to the the patio table nearly every day. The first time the man had caught a glimpse of the younger boy through the telescope, he was struck by how familiar he looked, but he couldn't place why. And then one day, the boy had turned and looked directly at him without seeing him and suddenly the man knew.

He was a dead ringer for Mark. No pun intended.

The coincidence wasn't lost on the man, and it set his mind drifting off on different tangents of how this boy who looked so much like his dead son had ended up the brother of the boy who'd killed his oldest.

The man had been watching and waiting for weeks. His initial plan had been to take the oldest boy when he was alone, but those times were shaping up to be rare. It was like the brothers had only just found each other or something and were determined to spend nearly every moment together. But the more he watched and observed the bond between the two, a new plan began forming - one that included the younger boy too. After all, it was apparent to anyone watching that the younger one was the older one's weakness. And anyone who knew anything about breaking someone down knew exploiting weaknesses was a must.

And the man wanted his revenge - the sweeter the better. It wasn't really that he was interested in avenging the death of his son, but more that he felt he'd grown soft during his time at Rikers, and this new … assignment ... that he'd set himself was a perfect reentry back into his former life.

He couldn't stop himself from actually rubbing his hands together in glee. The anticipation was the best part of the hunt, after all.

The man repositioned the telescope so it was at a more comfortable height for watching the antics taking place on the beach. He leaned back against his early model minivan and put his eye to the lens once again.

He zoomed it in just in time to see the younger boy tackle his brother around the waist and drag him into the surf. They struggled over the ball for a moment, and then they both turned toward the telescope, million-watt smiles glowing. The man, who was used to reading lips by now, spoke along with the boys.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

It was a thing with them - so cohesive and brotherly and familiar that it almost made his heart ache. He couldn't wait for the moment when he'd find a way to use it against them.

Oh the possibilities were endless.

-THE END-

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone for following, favoriting, and commenting on this story. The reviews make it all worthwhile :)


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